“What fame, from one thou hast not slain

In front of battle, canst thou gain,

Whose secret hand has laid me low

When madly fighting with my foe?

From every tongue thy glory rings,

A scion of a line of kings,

True to thy vows, of noblest race,

With every gentle gift and grace:

Whose tender heart for woe can feel,

And joy in every creature’s weal:

Whose breast with high ambition swells,

Knows duty’s claim and ne’er rebels.

They praise thy valour, patience, ruth,

Thy firmness, self-restraint, and truth:

Thy hand prepared for sin’s control,

All virtues of a princely soul.

I thought of all these gifts of thine,

And glories of an ancient line,

I set my Tárá’s tears at naught,

I met Sugríva and we fought.

O Ráma, till this fatal morn

I held that thou wouldst surely scorn

To strike me as I fought my foe

And thought not of a stranger’s blow,

But now thine evil heart is shown,

A yawning well with grass o’ergrown.

Thou wearest virtue’s badge,(588) but guile

And meanest sin thy soul defile.

I took thee not for treacherous fire,

A sinner clad in saint’s attire;

Nor deemed thou idly wouldst profess

The show and garb of righteousness.

In fenced town, in open land,

Ne’er hast thou suffered at this hand,

Nor canst of proud contempt complain:

Then wherefore is the guiltless slain?

My harmless life in woods I lead,

On forest fruits and roots I feed.

My foeman in the field I sought,

And ne’er with thee, O Ráma, fought.

Upon thy limbs, O King, I see

The raiment of a devotee;

And how can one like thee, who springs

From a proud line of ancient kings,

Beneath fair virtue’s mask, disgrace

His lineage by a deed so base?

From Raghu is thy long descent,

For duteous deeds prëeminent:

Why, sinner clad in saintly dress,

Roamest thou through the wilderness?

Truth, valour, justice free from spot,

The hand that gives and grudges not,

The might that strikes the sinner down,

These bring a prince his best renown.

Here in the woods, O King, we live

On roots and fruit which branches give.(589)

Thus nature framed our harmless race:

Thou art a man supreme in place.

Silver and gold and land provoke

The fierce attack, the robber’s stroke,

Canst thou desire this wild retreat,

The berries and the fruit we eat?

’Tis not for mighty kings to tread

The flowery path, by pleasure led.

Theirs be the arm that crushes sin,

Theirs the soft grace to woo and win:

The steadfast will that guides the state,

Wise favour to the good and great;

And for all time are kings renowned

Who blend these arts and ne’er confound.

But thou art weak and swift to ire,

Unstable, slave of each desire.

Thou tramplest duty in the dust,

And in thy bow is all thy trust.

Thou carest naught for noble gain,

And treatest virtue with disdain,

While every sense its captive draws

To follow pleasure’s changing laws.

I wronged thee not in word or deed,

But by thy deadly dart I bleed.

What wilt thou, mid the virtuous, say

To purge thy lasting stain away?

All these, O King, must sink to hell,

The regicide, the infidel,

He who in blood and slaughter joys,

A Bráhman or a cow destroys,

Untimely weds in law’s despite

Scorning an elder brother’s right,(590)

Who dares his Teacher’s bed ascend,

The miser, spy, and treacherous friend.

These impious wretches, one and all,

Must to the hell of sinners fall.

My skin the holy may not wear,

Useless to thee my bones and hair;

Nor may my slaughtered body be

The food of devotees like thee.

These five-toed things a man may slay

And feed upon the fallen prey;

The mailed rhinoceros may die,

And, with the hare his food supply.

Iguanas he may kill and eat,

With porcupine and tortoise meat.(591)

But all the wise account it sin

To touch my bones and hair and skin.

My flesh they may not eat; and I

A useless prey, O Ráma, die.

In vain my Tárá reasoned well,

On dull deaf ears her counsel fell.

I scorned her words though sooth and sweet,

And hither rushed my fate to meet.

Ah for the land thou rulest! she

Finds no protection, lord, from thee,

Neglected like some noble dame

By a vile husband dead to shame.

Mean-hearted coward, false and vile,

Whose cruel soul delights in guile,

Could Daśaratha, noblest king,

Beget so mean and base a thing?

Alas! an elephant, in form

Of Ráma, in a maddening storm

Of passion casting to the ground

The girth of law(592) that clipped him round,

Too wildly passionate to feel

The prick of duty’s guiding steel,(593)

Has charged me unawares, and dead

I fall beneath his murderous tread.

How, stained with this my base defeat,

How wilt thou dare, where good men meet,

To speak, when every tongue will blame

With keen reproach this deed of shame?

Such hero strength and valour, shown

Upon the innocent alone,

Thou hast not proved in manly strife

On him who robbed thee of thy wife.

Hadst thou but fought in open field

And met me boldly unconcealed,

This day had been thy fate to fall,

Slain by this hand, to Yáma’s hall.

In vain I strove, and struck by thee

Fell by a hand I could not see.

Thus bites a snake, for sins of yore,

A sleeping man who wakes no more.

Sugríva’s foeman thou hast killed,

And thus his heart’s desire fulfilled;

But, Ráma, hadst thou sought me first,

And told the hope thy soul has nursed,

That very day had I restored

The Maithil lady to her lord;

And, binding Rávaṇ with a chain,

Had laid him at thy feet unslain.

Yea, were she sunk in deepest hell,

Or whelmed beneath the ocean’s swell,

I would have followed on her track

And brought the rescued lady back,

As Hayagríva(594) once set free

From hell the white Aśvatarí.(595)

That when my spirit wings its flight

Sugríva reign, is just and right.

But most unjust, O King, that I,

Slain by thy treacherous hand, should lie.

Be still, my heart: this earthly state

Is darkly ruled by sovereign Fate.

The realm is lost and won: defy

Thy questioners with apt reply.”(596)

Canto XVIII. Ráma’s Reply.

He ceased: and Ráma’s heart was stirred

At every keen reproach he heard.

There Báli lay, a dim dark sun,

His course of light and glory run:

Or like the bed of Ocean dried

Of his broad floods from side to side,

Or helpless, as the dying fire,

Hushed his last words of righteous ire.

Then Ráma, with his spirit moved,

The Vánar king in turn reproved:

“Why dost thou, Báli, thus revile,

And castest not a glance the while

On claims of duty, love, and gain,

And customs o’er the world that reign?

Why dost thou blame me, rash and blind,

Fickle as all thy Vánar kind,

Slighting each rule of ancient days

Which all the good and prudent praise?

This land, each hill and woody chase,

Belongs to old Ikshváku’s race:

With bird and beast and man, the whole

Is ours to cherish and control.

Now Bharat, prompt at duty’s call,

Wise, just, and true, is lord of all.

Each claim of law, love, gain he knows,

And wrath and favour duly shows.

A king from truth who never bends,

And grace with vigour wisely blends;

With valour worthy of his race,

He knows the claims of time and place.

Now we and other kings of might,

By his ensample taught aright,

The lands of every region tread

That justice may increase and spread.

While royal Bharat, wise and just,

Rules the broad earth, his glorious trust,

Who shall attempt, while he is lord,

A deed by Justice held abhorred?

We now, as Bharat has decreed,

Let justice guide our every deed,

And toil each sinner to repress

Who scorns the way of righteousness.

Thou from that path hast turned aside,

And virtue’s holy law defied,

Left the fair path which kings should tread,

And followed pleasure’s voice instead.

The man who cleaves to duty’s law

Regards these three with filial awe—

The sire, the elder brother, third

Him from whose lips his lore he heard.

Thus too, for duty’s sake, the wise

Regard with fond paternal eyes

The well-loved younger brother, one

Their lore has ripened, and a son.

Fine are the laws which guide the good,

Abstruse, and hardly understood;

Only the soul, enthroned within

The breast of each, knows right from sin.

But thou art wild and weak of soul,

And spurnest, like thy race, control;

The true and right thou canst not find,

The blind consulting with the blind.

Incline thine ear and I will teach

The cause that prompts my present speech.

This tempest of thy soul assuage,

Nor blame me in thine idle rage.

On this great sin thy thoughts bestow,

The sin for which I lay thee low.

Thou, Báli, in thy brother’s life

Hast robbed him of his wedded wife,

And keepest, scorning ancient right,

His Rumá for thine own delight.

Thy son’s own wife should scarcely be

More sacred in thine eyes than she.

All duty thou hast scorned, and hence

Comes punishment for dire offence.

For those who blindly do amiss

There is, I ween, no way but this:

To check the rash who dare to stray

From customs which the good obey,

I may not, sprung of Kshatriya line,

Forgive this heinous sin of thine:

The laws for those who sin like thee

The penalty of death decree.

Now Bharat rules with sovereign sway,

And we his royal word obey.

There was no hope of pardon, none,

For the vile deed that thou hast done,

That wisest monarch dooms to die

The wretch whose crimes the law defy;

And we, chastising those who err,

His righteous doom administer.

My soul accounts Sugríva dear

E’en as my brother Lakshmaṇ here.

He brings me blessing, and I swore

His wife and kingdom to restore:

A bond in solemn honour bound

When Vánar chieftains stood around.

And can a king like me forsake

His friend, and plighted promise break?

Reflect, O Vánar, on the cause,

The sanction of eternal laws,

And, justly smitten down, confess

Thou diest for thy wickedness.

By honour was I bound to lend

Assistance to a faithful friend;

And thou hast met a righteous fate

Thy former sins to expiate.

And thus wilt thou some merit win

And make atonement for thy sin.

For hear me, Vánar King, rehearse

What Manu(597) spake in ancient verse,—

This holy law, which all accept

Who honour duty, have I kept:

“Pure grow the sinners kings chastise,

And, like the virtuous, gain the skies;

By pain or full atonement freed,

They reap the fruit of righteous deed,

While kings who punish not incur

The penalties of those who err.”

Mándhátá(598) once, a noble king,

Light of the line from which I spring,

Punished with death a devotee

When he had stooped to sin like thee;

And many a king in ancient time

Has punished frantic sinners’ crime,

And, when their impious blood was spilt,

Has washed away the stain of guilt.

Cease, Báli, cease: no more complain:

Reproaches and laments are vain,

For thou art justly punished: we

Obey our king and are not free.

Once more, O Báli, lend thine ear

Another weightiest plea to hear.

For this, when heard and pondered well,

Will all complaint and rage dispel.

My soul will ne’er this deed repent,

Nor was my shaft in anger sent.

We take the silvan tribes beset

With snare and trap and gin and net,

And many a heedless deer we smite

From thickest shade, concealed from sight.

Wild for the slaughter of the game,

At stately stags our shafts we aim.

We strike them bounding scared away,

We strike them as they stand at bay,

When careless in the shade they lie,

Or scan the plain with watchful eye.

They turn away their heads; we aim,

And none the eager hunter blame.

Each royal saint, well trained in law

Of duty, loves his bow to draw

And strike the quarry, e’en as thou

Hast fallen by mine arrow now,

Fighting with him or unaware,—

A Vánar thou.—I little care.(599)

But yet, O best of Vánars, know

That kings who rule the earth bestow

Fruit of pure life and virtuous deed,

And lofty duty’s hard-won meed.

Harm not thy lord the king: abstain

From act and word that cause him pain;

For kings are children of the skies

Who walk this earth in men’s disguise.

But thou, in duty’s claims untaught,

Thy breast with blinding passion fraught,

Assailest me who still have clung

To duty, with thy bitter tongue.”

He ceased: and Báli sore distressed

The sovereign claims of law confessed,

And freed, o’erwhelmed with woe and shame,

The lord of Raghu’s race from blame.

Then, reverent palm to palm applied,

To Ráma thus the Vánar cried:

“True, best of men, is every word

That from thy lips these ears have heard,

It ill beseems a wretch like me

To bandy empty words with thee.

Forgive the angry taunts that broke

From my wild bosom as I spoke.

And lay not to my charge, O King,

My mad reproaches’ idle sting.

Thou, in the truth by trial trained,

Best knowledge of the right hast gained:

And layest, just and pure within,

The meetest penalty on sin.

Through every bond of law I burst,

The boldest sinner and the worst.

O let thy right-instructing speech

Console my heart and wisely teach.”

Like some sad elephant who stands

Fast sinking in the treacherous sands,

Thus Báli raised despairing eyes;

Then spake again with sobs and sighs:

“Not for myself, O King, I grieve,

For Tárá or the friends I leave,

As for sweet Angad, my dear son,

My noble, only little one.

For, nursed in luxury and bliss,

His father he will mourn and miss,

And like a stream whose fount is dry

Will waste away and sink and die,—

My own dear child, my only boy,

His mother Tárá’s hope and joy.

Spare him, O son of Raghu, spare

The child entrusted to thy care.

My Angad and Sugríva treat

E’en as thy heart considers meet,

For thou, O chief of men, art strong

To guard the right and punish wrong.

O, if thou wilt thine ear incline

To hear these dying words of mine,

He and Sugríva will to thee

As Bharat and as Lakshmaṇ be.

Let not my Tárá, left forlorn,

Weep for Sugríva’s wrathful scorn;

Nor let him, for her lord’s offence,

Condemn her faithful innocence.

And well and wisely may he reign

If thy dear grace his power sustain:

If, following thee his friend and guide,

He turn not from thy hest aside:

Thus may he reign with glory, nay

Thus to the skies will win his way.

Though stayed by Tárá’s fond recall,

By thy dear hand I longed to fall.

Against my brother rushed and fought,

And gained the death I long have sought.”

Then Ráma thus the prince consoled

From whose clear eyes the mists were rolled:

“Grieve not for those thou leavest thus,

Nor tremble for thyself or us,

For we will deal with thine and thee

As duty and the laws decree.

He who exacts and he who pays,

Is justly slain or justly slays,

Shall in the life to come have bliss;

For each has done his task in this.

Thou, wandering from the right, art made

Pure by the forfeit thou hast paid.

Thy weight of sins is cast aside,

And duty’s claim is satisfied.

Then grieve no more, O Prince, but clear

Thy bosom from all doubt and fear,

For fate, inexorably stern,

Thou hast no power to move or turn.

Thy princely Angad still will share

My tender love, Sugríva’s care;

And to thy offspring shall be shown

Affection that shall match thine own.”

Canto XIX. Tárá’s Grief.

No answer gave the Vánar king

To Ráma’s prudent counselling.

Battered and bruised by tree and stone,

By Ráma’s arrow overthrown,

Fainting upon the ground he lay,

Gasping his troubled life away.

But Tárá in the Vánar’s hall

Heard tidings of her husband’s fall;

Heard that a shaft from Ráma’s bow

Had laid the royal Báli low.

Her darling Angad by her side,

Distracted from her home she hied.

Then nigh the place of battle drew

The Vánars, Angad’s retinue.

They saw the bow-armed Ráma: dread

Fell on them, and they turned and fled.

Like helpless deer, their leaders slain,

So wildly fled the startled train.

But Tárá saw, and nearer pressed,

And thus the flying band addressed:

“O Vánars, ye who ever stand

About our king, a trusty band,

Where is the lion master? why

Forsake ye thus your lord and fly?

Say, lies he dead upon the plain,

A brother by a brother slain,

Or pierced by shafts from Ráma’s bow

That rain from far upon the foe?”

Thus Tárá questioned, and was still:

Then, wearers of each shape at will,

The Vánars thus with one accord

Answered the Lady of their lord:

“Turn, Tárá turn, and half undone

Save Angad thy beloved son.

There Ráma stands in death’s disguise,

And conquered Báli faints and dies.

He by whose strong arm, thick and fast,

Uprooted trees and rocks were cast,

Lies smitten by a shaft that came

Resistless as the lightning flame.

When he, whose splendour once could vie

With Indra’s, regent of the sky,

Fell by that deadly arrow, all

The Vánars fled who marked his fall.

Let all our chiefs their succours bring,

And Angad be anointed king;

For all who come of Vánar race

Will serve him set in Báli’s place.

Or else our conquering foes to-day

Within our wall will force their way,

Polluting with their hostile feet

The chambers of thy loved retreat.

Great fear is on us, all and one.

Those who have wives and who have none,

They lust for power, are fierce and bold,

Or hate us for the strife of old.”

She heard their speech as, sore afraid,

Arrested in their flight, they stayed,

And gave her answer as became

The spirit of so true a dame:

“Nay, what have I to do with pelf,

With son, with kingdom, or with self,

When he, my noble lord, who leads

The Vánars like a lion, bleeds?

His high-souled victor will I meet,

And throw me prostrate at his feet.”

She hastened forth, her bosom rent

With anguish, weeping as she went,

And striking, mastered by her woes,

Her head and breast with frantic blows.

She hurried to the field and found

Her husband prostrate on the ground,

Who quelled the hostile Vánars’ might,

Whose bank was never turned in flight:

Whose arm a massy rock could throw

As Indra hurls his bolts below:

Fierce as the rushing tempest, loud

As thunder from a labouring cloud:

Whene’er he roared his voice of fear

Struck terror on the boldest ear:

Now slain, as, hungry for the prey,

A tiger might a lion slay:

Or when, his serpent foe to seek,

Suparṇa(600) with his furious beak

Tears up a sacred hillock, long

The reverence of a village throng,

Its altar with their offerings spread,

And the gay flag that waved o’erhead.

She looked and saw the victor stand

Resting upon his bow his hand:

And fierce Sugríva she descried,

And Lakshmaṇ by his brother’s side.

She passed them by, nor stayed to view,

Swift to her husband’s side she flew;

Then as she looked, her strength gave way,

And in the dust she fell and lay.

Then, as if startled ere the close

Of slumber, from the earth she rose.

Upon her dying husband, round

Whose soul the coils of Death were wound,

Her eyes in agony she bent

And called him with a shrill lament.

Sugríva, when he heard her cries,

And saw the queen with weeping eyes,

And youthful Angad standing there,

His load of grief could hardly bear.

Canto XX. Tárá’s Lament.

Again she bent her to the ground,

Her arms about her husband wound.

Sobbed on his breast, and sick and faint

With anguish poured her wild complaint:

“Brave in the charge of battle, boast

And glory of the Vánar host,

Why on the cold earth wilt thou lie

And give no answer when I cry?

Up, warrior, from thy lowly bed!

A meeter couch for thee is spread.

It ill beseems a glorious king

On the bare ground his limbs to fling.

Ah, surely must thy love be strong

For her whom thou hast governed long,

If thou, my hero, canst recline

On her cold breast forsaking mine.

Or, famed for justice through the land,

Thou on the road to heaven hast planned

Some city fairer far than this

To be thy new metropolis.

Are all our pleasures ended now,

With those delicious hours which thou

And I, dear lord, together spent

In woods that breathed the honey’s scent?

Whelmed in my sorrow’s boundless sea,

There is no joy, no hope, for me,

When my beloved lord, who led

The Vánars to the fight, is dead,

My widowed heart is stern and cold.

Or, at the sight mine eyes behold,

O’ermastered would it end this ache

And in a thousand fragments break.

Ah noble Vánar, doomed to pay

The penalty of all today—

Sugríva from his home expelled,

And Rumá(601) from his arms withheld.

Our Vánar race and thee to save,

Wise counsel for thy weal I gave;

But thou, by wildest folly stirred,

Wouldst give no credence to my word,

And now wilt woo the nymphs above,

And shake their souls with pangs of love.

Ah, never could it be that thou

Beneath Sugríva’s power shouldst bow,

Thy conqueror is none but Fate

Whose mandates all who breathe await.

And does no thrill of anguish run

Through the stern breast of Raghu’s son,

Whose base hand dealt a coward’s blow,

And smote thee fighting with thy foe?

Reft of my lord my days, alas!

In bitter bitter woe will pass:

And I, long blest with every good,

Must bear my dreary widowhood.

And when his uncle’s brow is stern,

When his fierce eyes with fury burn,

Ah, what will be my Angad’s fate,

So fair and young and delicate?

Come, darling, for the last sad sight,

Of thy dear sire who loved the right;

For soon thine eyes will long in vain

A look at that loved face to gain.

And, hero, as thy child draws near,

With tender words his spirit cheer;

Thy dying wishes gently speak,

And kiss him on the brows and cheek.

High fame, I ween, has Ráma won

By this great deed his hand has done,

His debt to brave Sugríva paid

And kept the promise that he made.

Be happy, King Sugríva, lord

Of Ramá to thine arms restored:

Enjoy uninterrupted reign,

For he, thy foe, at length is slain.

Dost thou not hear me speak, and why

Hast thou no word of soft reply?

Will thou not lift thine eyes and see

These dames who look to none but thee?”

From their sad eyes, as Tárá spoke,

The floods of bitter sorrow broke:

Then, pressing close to Angad’s side,

Each lifted up her voice and cried:

“How couldst thou leave thine Angad thus,

And go, for ever go, from us—

Thy child so dear in brave attire,

Graced with the virtues of his sire?

If e’er in want of thought, O chief,

One deed of mine have caused thee grief,

Forgive my folly, I entreat,

And with my head I touch thy feet.”

Again the hapless Tárá wept

As to her husband’s side she crept,

And wild with sorrow and dismay

Sat on the ground where Báli lay.

Canto XXI. Hanumán’s Speech.

There, like a fallen star, the dame

Fell by her lord’s half lifeless frame;

And Hanumán drew softly near,

And strove her grieving heart to cheer:

“By changeless law our bliss and woe

From ancient worth and folly flow.

What fruits soe’er we cull, the seeds

Were scattered by our former deeds.(602)

Why mourn another’s mournful fate,

And weep, thyself unfortunate?

Be calm, O thou whose heart is wise,

For none deserves another’s sighs.

Look up, with idle sorrow strive:

Thy child, his heir, is yet alive.

Let needful rites be duly done,

Nor in thy woe forget thy son.

Regard the law which all obey:

They spring to life, they pass away.

Begin the task that bids thee rise,

And stay these tears, for thou art wise.

Our lord the king is doomed to die,

On whom ten million hearts rely.

Kind, liberal, patient, true, and just

Was he in whom they place their trust,

And now he seeks the land of those

Who for the right subdue their foes.

Each Vánar lord with all his train,

Each ranger of this wild domain,

And Angad here, thy darling, see

A governor and friend in thee.

These twain(603) whose hearts with sorrow ache

The funeral rites shall undertake,

And Angad by his mother’s care

Be king, his father’s rightful heir.

Now let him pay, as laws require,

His sacred duty to his sire,

Nor one solemnity omit

Of all that mighty kings befit.

And when thy fond eye sees thine own

Dear Angad on his father’s throne,

Then, lightened of its load of pain,

Thy spirit will have rest again.”

She heard his speech, she heaved her head,

Looked upon Hanumán and said:

“Sweeter my slain lord’s limbs to touch,

Than Angad or a hundred such.

No rule or right, a widowed dame,

O’er Angad or the realm I claim.

Sugríva is the uncle, he

In every act supreme must be.

I pray thee, chief, this plan resign,

Nor claim from me what ne’er is mine.

The father with his tender care

Guards the dear child the mother bare,

Where’er I be, no sweeter task,

No happier joy I hope or ask

Than thus to sit with loving eyes

And watch the bed where Báli lies.

Canto XXII. Báli Dead.

There breathing still with slow faint sighs

Lay Báli on the ground: his eyes,

Damp with the tears of death, he raised,

On conquering Sugríva gazed,

And then in clearest speech expressed

The tender feelings of his breast:

“Not to my charge, Sugríva, lay

Thine injuries avenged to-day;

But rather blame resistless Fate

That urged me on infuriate.

Fate ne’er agreed our lives to bless

With simultaneous happiness:

To dwell like brothers side by side

In tender love was still denied.

The Vánars’ realm is thine to-day:

Begin, O King, thy rightful sway;(604)

For I must go at Yáma’s call

To sojourn in his gloomy hall;

Must part and leave this very hour

My life, my realm, my kingly power,

And go instead of these to gain

Bright glory free from spot and stain.

Now at thy hands one boon I seek

With the last words my lips shall speak,

And, though it be no easy thing,

Perform the task I give thee, King.

This son of mine, no foolish boy,

Worthy of bliss and nursed in joy,—

See, prostrate on the ground he lies,

The hot tears welling from his eyes—

The child I love so well, more sweet

Than life itself, for woe unmeet,—

To him be kindly favour shown:

O guard and keep him as thine own.

Retain him ever by thy side,

His father, helper, friend, and guide.

From fear and woe his young life save,

And give him all his father gave.

Then Tárá’s son in time shall be

Brave, resolute, and famed like thee,

And march before thee to the fight

Where stricken fiends shall own his might.

While yet a tender stripling, fame

Shall bruit abroad his warrior name,

And brightly shall his glory shine

For exploits worthy of his line.

Child of Susheṇ,(605) my Tárá well

Obscurest lore can read and tell;

And, trained in wondrous art, divines

Each mystery of boding signs.

Her solemn warning ne’er despise,

Do boldly what her lips advise;

For things to come her eye can see,

And with her words events agree.

And for the son of Raghu’s sake

The toil and danger undertake:

For breach of faith were grievous wrong,

Nor wouldst thou be unpunished long.

Now, brother, take this chain of gold,

Gift of celestial hands of old,

Or when I die its charm will flee,

And all its might be lost with me.”

The loving speech Sugríva heard,

And all his heart with woe was stirred.

Remorse and gentle pity stole

Each thought of triumph from his soul:

Thus fades the light when Ráhu(606) mars

The glory of the Lord of Stars.(607)

All angry thoughts were stayed and stilled

And kindly love his bosom filled.

His brother’s word the chief obeyed

And took the chain as Báli prayed.

On little Angad standing nigh

The dying hero fixed his eye,

And, ready from this world to part,

Spoke the fond utterance of his heart:

“Let time and place thy thoughts employ:

In woe be strong, be meek in joy.

Accept both pain and pleasure, still

Obedient to Sugríva’s will.

Thou hast, my darling, from the first

With tender care been softly nursed;

But harder days, if thou wouldst win

Sugríva’s love, must now begin.

To those who hate him ne’er incline,

Nor count his foe a friend of thine.

In all thy thoughts his welfare seek,

Obedient, lowly, faithful, meek.

Let no rash suit his bosom pain,

Nor yet from due requests abstain.(608)

Each is a grievous fault, between

The two is found the happy mean.”

Then Báli ceased: his eyeballs rolled

In stress of anguish uncontrolled

His massive teeth were bared to view,

And from the frame the spirit flew.

Their lord and leader dead, the crowd

Of noblest Vánars shrieked aloud:

“Since thou, O King, hast sought the skies

All desolate Kishkindhá lies.

Her woods, where Vánars loved to rove,

Are empty now, and hill and grove.

From every eye the light is fled,

Since thou, our mighty lord, art dead.

Thine was the unwearied arm that bore

The brunt of deadly fight of yore

With Golabh the Gandharva, when,

Lasting through five long years and ten,

The dreadful conflict knew no stay

In gloom of night, in glare of day;

And when the fifteenth year had past

Thy dire opponent fell at last.

If such a foeman fell beneath

Our hero’s arm and awful teeth

Who freed us from our terror, how

Is conquering Báli fallen now?”

Then when they saw their leader slain

Great anguish seized the Vánar train,

Weeping their mighty chief, as when

In pastures near a lion’s den

The cows by sudden fear are stirred,

Slain the bold bull who led the herd.

And hapless Tárá sank below

The whelming waters of her woe,

Looked upon Báli’s face and fell

Beside him whom she loved go well,

Like a young creeper clinging round

A tall tree prostrate on the ground.

Canto XXIII. Tárá’s Lament.

She kissed her lifeless husband’s face,

She clasped him in a close embrace,

Laid her soft lips upon his head;

Then words like these the mourner said:

“No words of mine wouldst thou regard,

And now thy bed is cold and hard.

Upon the rude rough ground o’erthrown,

Beneath thee naught but sand and stone.

To thee the earth is dearer far

Than I and my caresses are,

If thou upon her breast wilt lie,

And to my words make no reply.

Ah my beloved, good and brave,

Bold to attack and strong to save,

Fate is Sugríva’s thrall, and we

In him our lord and master see.

Lo, by thy bed, a mournful band,

Thy Vánar chiefs lamenting stand.

O hear thy nobles’ groans and cries,

O mark thy Angad’s weeping eyes,

O list to my entreaties, break

The chains of slumber and awake.

Ah me, my lord, this lowly bed

Where rest thy limbs and fallen head,

Is the cold couch where smitten lay

Thy foemen in the bloody fray.

O noble heart from blemish free,

Lover of war, beloved by me.

Why hast thou fled away and left

Thy Tárá of all hope bereft?

Unwise the father who allows

His child to be a warrior’s spouse,

For, hero, see thy consort’s fate,

A widow now most desolate,

For ever broken is my pride,

My hope of lasting bliss has died,

And sinking in the lowest deep

Of sorrow’s sea I pine and weep.

Ah, surely not of earthly mould,

This stony heart is stern and cold,

Or, in a hundred pieces rent,

It had not lingered to lament.

Dead, dead! my husband, friend, and lord

In whom my loving hopes were stored,

First in the field, his foemen’s dread,

My own victorious Báli, dead!

A woman when her lord has died,

Though children flourish by her side,

Though stores of gold her coffers fill,

Is called a lonely widow still.

Alas, thy bleeding gashes make

Around thy limbs a purple lake:

Thus slumbering was thy wont to lie

On cushions bright with crimson dye.

Dark streams of welling blood besmear

Thy limbs where dust and mire adhere,

Nor have I strength, weighed down by woe,

Mine arms about thy form to throw.

The issue of this day has brought

Sugríva all his wishes sought,

For Ráma shot one shaft and he

Is freed from fear and jeopardy.

Alas, alas, I may not rest

My head upon thy wounded breast,

Obstructed by the massive dart

Deep buried in thy bleeding heart.”

Then Níla from his bosom drew

The fatal shaft that pierced him through,

Like some tremendous serpent deep

In caverns of a hill asleep.

As from the hero’s wound it came,

Shot from the shaft a gleam of flame,

Like the last flashes of the sun

Descending when his course is run.

From the wide rent in crimson flood

Rushed the full stream of Báli’s blood,

Like torrents down a mountain’s side

With golden ore and copper dyed.

Then Tárá brushed with tender care

The dust of battle from his hair,

While her sad eyes poured down their rain

Upon her lord untimely slain.

Once more she looked upon the dead;

Then to her bright-eyed child she said:

“Turn hither, turn thy weeping eyes

Where low in death thy father lies.

By sinful deed and bitter hate

Our lord has met his mournful fate.

Bright as the sun at early morn

To Yáma’s halls is Báli borne.

Then go, my child, salute the king,

From whom our bliss and honour spring.”

Obedient to his mother’s hest

His father’s feet he gently pressed

With twining arms and lingering hands:

“Father,” he cried, “here Angad stands.”

Then Tárá: “Art thou stern and mute,

Regardless of thy child’s salute?

Hast thou no blessing for thy son,

No word for little Angad, none?

O, hero, at thy lifeless feet

Here with my boy I take my seat,

As some sad mother of the herd,

By the fierce lion undeterred,

Lies moaning by the grassy dell

Wherein her lord and leader fell.

How, having wrought that awful rite,

The sacrifice of deadly fight,

Wherein the shaft by Ráma sped

Supplied the place of water shed,

How hast thou bathed thee at the end

Without thy wife her aid to lend?(609)

Why do mine eyes no more behold

Thy bright beloved chain of gold,

Which, pleased with thee, the Immortals’ King

About thy neck vouchsafed to fling?

Still lingering on thy lifeless face

I see the pride of royal race:

Thus when the sun has set, his glow

Still rests upon the Lord of Snow.

Alas my hero! undeterred

Thou wouldst not listen to my word.

With tears and prayers I sued in vain:

Thou wouldst not listen, and art slain.

Gone is my bliss, my glory: I

And Angad now with thee will die.”

Canto XXIV. Sugríva’s Lament.

But when Sugríva saw her weep

O’erwhelmed in sorrow’s rushing deep,

Swift through his bosom pierced the sting

Of anguish for the fallen king.

At the sad sight his eyes beheld

A flood of bitter tears outwelled,

And, with his bosom racked and rent,

To Ráma with his train he went.

He came with faltering steps and slow

Where Ráma held his mighty bow

And arrow like a venomed snake,

And to the son of Raghu spake:

“Well hast thou kept, O King, thy vow:

The promised fruit is gathered now.

But life is marred, my soul to-day

Turns sickening from all joy away.

For, while this queen laments and sighs

Amid a mourning people’s cries,

And Angad weeps his father slain,

How can my heart delight to reign?

For outrage, fury, senseless pride,

My brother, doomed of yore, has died.

Yet, Raghu’s son, in bitter woe

I mourn his fated overthrow.

Ah, better far in pain and ill

To dwell on Rishyamúka still

Than gain the heaven of Gods and all

Its pleasures by my brother’s fall.

Did not he cry,—great-hearted foe,—

“Go, for I will not slay thee, Go”?

With his brave soul those words agree:

My speech, my deeds, are worthy me.

How can a brother counterweigh

His grievous loss with joys of sway,

And see with dull unpitying eye

So brave and good a brother die?

His lofty soul was nobly blind:

My death alas, he ne’er designed;

But I, urged blindly on by hate,

Sought with his life my rage to sate.

He smote me with a splintered tree:

I groaned aloud and turned to flee,

From stern reproaches he forbore,

And gently bade me sin no more.

Serene and dutiful and good

He kept the laws of brotherhood:

I, fierce and greedy, vengeful, base,

Showed all the vices of our race.

Ah me, dear friend, my brother’s fate

Lays on my soul a crushing weight:

A sin no heart should e’er conceive,

But at the thought each soul should grieve:

Sin such as Indra’s when his blow

Laid heavenly Viśvarúpa(610) low.

Yet earth, the waters of the seas,

The race of women and the trees

Were fain upon themselves to take

The weight of sin for Indra’s sake.

But who a Vánar’s soul will free,

Or ease the load that crushes me?

Wretch that I am, I may not claim

The reverence due to royal name.

How shall I reign supreme, or dare

Affect the power I should not share?

Ah me, I sorrow for my sin,

The ruin of my race and kin,

Polluted by a hideous crime

World-hated till the end of time.

Alas, the floods of sorrow roll

With whelming force upon my soul:

So gathers the descending rain

In the deep hollow of the plain.”

Canto XXV. Ráma’s Speech.

Then Raghu’s son, whose feeling breast

Shared the great woe that moved the rest,

Strove with wise charm their grief to ease

And gently spoke in words like these:

“You ne’er can raise the dead to bliss

By agony of grief like this.

Cease your lament, nor leave undone

The funeral task you may not shun.

As nature orders o’er the dead.

Your tributary tears are shed,

But Fate, directing each event,

Is still the lord preëminent.

Yes, all obey the changeless laws

Of Fate the universal cause.

By Fate, the lives of all proceed,

That governs every word and deed,

None acts, none sees his hest obeyed,

But each and all by Fate are swayed.

The world its ordered course maintains,

And o’er that course Fate ever reigns.

Fate ne’er exceeds the rule of Fate:

Is ne’er too swift, is ne’er too late,

And making nature its ally

Forgets no life, nor passes by.

No kith and kin, no power and force

Can check or stay its settled course,

No friend or client, grace or charm,

That victor of the world disarm.

So all who see with prudent eyes

The hand of Fate must recognize,

For virtue rules, or love, or gain,

As Fate’s unchanged decrees ordain.

Báli has died and won the meed

That waits in heaven on noble deed,

Throned in the seats the brave may reach

By liberal hand and gentle speech,

True to a warrior’s duty, bold

In fight, the hero lofty-souled

Deigned not to guard his life: he died,

And now in heaven is glorified.

Then cease these tears and wild despair:

Turn to the task that claims your care,

For Báli’s is the glorious fate

Which warriors count most fortunate.”

When Ráma’s speech had found a close,

Brave Lakshmaṇ, terror of his foes,

With wise and soothing words addressed

Sugríva still with woe oppressed:

“Arise Sugríva,” thus he said,

“Perform the service of the dead.

Prepare with Tárá and her son

That Báli’s rites be duly done.

A store of funeral wood provide

Which wind and sun and time have dried

And richest sandal fit to grace

The pyre of one of royal race.

With words of comfort soft and kind

Console poor Angad’s troubled mind,

Nor let thy heart be thus cast down,

For thine is now the Vánars’ town.

Let Angad’s care a wreath supply,

And raiment rich with varied dye,

And oil and perfumes for the fire,

And all the solemn rites require.

Go, hasten to the town, O King,

And Tárá’s little quickly bring.

A virtue is despatch: and speed

Is best of all in hour of need.

Go, let a chosen band prepare

The litter of the dead to bear.

For stout and tall and strong of limb

Must be the chiefs who carry him.”

He spoke,—his friends’ delight and pride,—

Then stood again by Ráma’s side.

When Tára(611) heard the words he said

Within the town he quickly sped,

And brought, on stalwart shoulders laid,

The litter for the rites arrayed,

Framed like a car for Gods, complete

With painted sides and royal seat,

With latticed windows deftly made,

And golden birds and trees inlaid:

Well joined and wrought in every part,

A marvel of ingenious art.

Where pleasure mounds in carven wood

And many a graven figure stood.

The best of jewels o’er it hung,

And wreaths of flowers around it clung,

And over all was raised on high

A canopy of saffron dye,

While like the sun of morning shone

The brilliant blooms that lay thereon.

That glorious litter Ráma eyed.

And spake to Lakshmaṇ by his side:

“Let Báli on the bier be placed

And with all funeral service graced.”

Sugríva then with many a tear

Drew Báli’s body to the bier

Whereon, with weeping Angad’s aid,

The relics of the chief were laid

Neath many a vesture’s varied fold,

And wreaths and ornaments and gold.

Then King Sugríva bade them speed

The obsequies by law decreed:

“Let Vánars lead the way and throw

Rich gems around them as they go,

And be the chosen bearers near

Behind them laden with the bier.

No costly rite may you deny,

Used when the proudest monarchs die:

As for a king of widest sway.

Perform his obsequies to-day.”

Sugríva gave his high behest;

Then Princely Tára and the rest,

With little Angad weeping, led

The long procession of the dead.

Behind the funeral litter came,

With Tárá first, each widowed dame,

In tears and shrieks her loss deplored,

Add cried aloud, My lord! My lord!

While wood and hill and valley sent

In echoes back the shrill lament.

Then on a low and sandy isle

Was reared the hero’s funeral pile

By crowds of toiling Vánars, where

The mountain stream ran fresh and fair,

The Vánar chiefs, a noble band,

Had laid the litter on the sand,

And stood a little space apart,

Each mourning in his inmost heart.

But Tárá, when her weeping eye

Saw Báli, on the litter lie,

Laid his dear head upon her lap,

And wailed aloud her dire mishap;

“O mighty Vánar, lord and king,

To whose fond breast I loved to cling,

Of goodly arms, wise, brave, and bold,

Rise, look upon me as of old.

Rise up, my sovereign, dost thou see

A crowd of subjects weep for thee?

Still o’er thy face, though breath has fled,

The joyous light of life is spread:

Thus around the sun, although he set,

A crimson glory lingers yet.

Death clad in Ráma’s form to-day

Hast dragged thee from the world away.

One shaft from his tremendous bow

Dooms us to widowhood and woe.

Hast thou, O Vánar King, no eyes

Thy weeping wives to recognize,

Who for the length of way unmeet

Have followed thee with weary feet?

Yet every moon-faced beauty here

By thee, O King was counted dear.

Lord of the Vánar race, hast thou

No eyes to see Sugríva now?

About thee stands in mournful mood

A sore-afflicted multitude,

And Tára and thy lords of state

Around their monarch weep and wait.

Arise my lord, with gentle speech,

As was thy wont, dismissing each,

Then in the forest will we play

And love shall make our spirits gay.”

The Vánar dames raised Tárá, drowned

In floods of sorrow, from the ground;

And Angad with Sugríva’s aid,

O’erwhelmed with anguish and dismayed,

Weeping for his departed sire,

Placed Báli’s body on the pyre:

Then lit the flame, and round the dead

Passed slowly with a mourner’s tread.

Thus with full rites the funeral train

Performed the service for the slain,

Then sought the flowing stream and made

Libations to the parted shade.

There, setting Angad first in place,

The chieftains of the Vánar race,

With Tárá and Sugríva, shed

The water that delights the dead.

Canto XXVI. The Coronation.

Each Vánar councillor and peer

In crowded numbers gathered near

Sugríva, mournful king, while yet

His vesture from the wave was wet,

Before the chief of Raghu’s seed

Unwearied in each arduous deed,

They stood and raised the reverent hand

As saints before Lord Brahmá stand.

Then Hanumán of massive mould,

Like some tall hill of glistering gold,

Son of the God whose wild blasts shake

The forest, thus to Ráma spake:

“By thy kind favour, O my lord,

Sugríva, to his home restored

Triumphant, has regained to-day

His rank and power and royal sway.

He now will call each faithful friend,

Enter the city, and attend

With sage advice and prudent care

To every task that waits him there.

Then balm and unguent shall anoint

Our monarch, as the laws appoint,

And gems and precious wreaths shall be

His grateful offering, King, to thee.

Do thou, O Ráma, with thy friend

Thy steps within the city bend;

Our ruler on his throne install,

And with thy presence cheer us all.”

Then, skilled in lore and arts that guide

The speaker, Raghu’s son replied:

“For fourteen years I might not break

The mandate that my father spake;

Nor can I, till that time be fled,

The street of town or village tread.

Let King Sugríva seek the town

Most worthy of her high renown,

There let him be without delay

Anointed, and begin his sway.”

This answered, to Sugríva then

Thus spake anew the king of men:

“Do thou who knowest right ordain

Prince Angad consort of thy reign;

For he is noble, true, and bold,

And trained a righteous course to hold

Gifts like his sire’s that youth adorn

Born eldest to the eldest born.

This is the month of Śrávaṇ,(612) first

Of those that see the rain-clouds burst.

Four months, thou knowest well, extends

The season when the rain descends.

No time for deeds of war is this:

Seek thou thy fair metropolis,

And I with Lakshmaṇ, O my friend,

The time upon this hill will spend.

An ample cavern opens there

Made lovely by the mountain air,

And lotuses and lilies fill

The pleasant lake and murmuring rill.

When Kártik’s(613) month shall clear the skies,

Then tempt the mighty enterprise.

Now, chieftain to thy home repair,

And be anointed sovereign there.”

Sugríva heard: he bowed his head:

Within the lovely town he sped

Which Báli’s royal will had swayed,

Where thousand Vánar chiefs arrayed

Gathered in order round their king,

And led him on with welcoming.

Low on the earth the lesser crowd

Fell in prostration as they bowed.

Sugríva looked with grateful eyes,

Spake to them all and bade them rise.

Then through the royal bowers he strode

Wherein the monarch’s wives abode.

Soon from the inner chambers came

The Vánar of exalted fame;

And joyful friends drew near and shed

King-making balm upon his head,

Like Gods anointing in the skies

Their sovereign of the thousand eyes.(614)

Then brought they, o’er their king to hold

The white umbrella decked with gold,

And chouries with their waving hair

In golden handles wondrous fair;

And fragrant herbs and seed and spice,

And sparkling gems exceeding price,

And every bloom from woods and leas,

And gum distilled from milky trees;

And precious ointment white as milk,

And spotless robes of cloth and silk,

Wreaths of sweet flowers whose glories gleam

In grassy grove, on lake or stream.

And fragrant sandal and each scent

That makes the soft breeze redolent;

Grain, honey, odorous seed, and store

Of oil and curd and golden ore;

A noble tiger’s skin, a pair

Of sandals wrought with costliest care,

Eight pairs of damsels drawing nigh

Brought unguents stained with varied dye.

Then gems and cates and robes displayed

Before the twice-born priests were laid,

That they would deign in order due

To consecrate the king anew.

The sacred grass was duly spread

And sacrificial flame was fed,

Which Scripture-learned priests supplied

With oil which texts had sanctified.

Then, with all rites ordained of old,

High on the terrace bright with gold,

Whereon a glorious carpet lay,

And fresh-culled garlands sweet and gay,

Placed on his throne, Sugríva bent

His looks toward the Orient.

In horns from forehead of the bull,

In pitchers bright and beautiful,

In urns of gold the Vánara took

Pure water brought from stream and brook,

From every consecrated strand

And every sea that beats the land.

Then, as prescribed by sacred lore

And many a mighty sage of yore,(615)

The leaders of the Vánars poured

The sacred water on their lord.(616)

From every Vánar at the close

Of that imperial rite arose

Shouts of glad triumph, loud and long

Repeated by the high-souled throng.

Sugríva, when the rite was done,

Obeyed the hest of Raghu’s son,

Prince Angad to his breast he strained,

And partner of his sway ordained.

Once more from all the host rang out

The loud huzza and jovful shout.

“Well done! well done!” each Vánar cried,

And good Sugríva glorified.

Then with glad voices loudly raised

Were Ráma and his brother praised;

And bright Kishkindhá shone that day

With happy throngs and banners gay.

Canto XXVII. Ráma On The Hill.

But when the solemn rite was o’er,

And bold Sugríva reigned once more,

The sons of Raghu sought the hill,

Praśravaṇ of the rushing rill,

Where roamed the tiger and the deer,

And lions raised their voice of fear;

Thick set with trees of every kind,

With trailing shrubs and plants entwined;

Home of the ape and monkey, lair

Of mountain cat and pard and bear.

In cloudy gloom against the sky

The sanctifying hills rose high.

Pierced in their crest, a spacious cave

To Raghu’s sons a shelter gave.

Then Ráma, pure from every crime,

In words well suited to the time

To Lakshmaṇ spake, whose faithful zeal

Watched humbly for his brother’s weal:

“I love this spacious cavern where

There breathes a fresh and pleasant air.

Brave brother, let us here remain

Throughout the season of the rain.

For in mine eyes this mountain crest

Is above all, the loveliest.

Where copper-hued and black and white

Show the huge blocks that face the height;

Where gleams the shine of varied ore,

Where dark clouds hang and torrents roar;

Where waving woods are fair to see,

And creepers climb from tree to tree;

Where the gay peacock’s voice is shrill,

And sweet birds carol on the hill;

Where odorous breath is wafted far

From Jessamine and Sinduvár;(617)

And opening flowers of every hue

Give wondrous beauty to the view.

See, too, this pleasant water near

Our cavern home is fresh and clear;

And lilies gay with flower and bud

Are glorious on the lovely flood.

This cave that fares north and east

Will shelter us till rain has ceased;

And towering hills that rise behind

Will screen us from the furious wind.

Close by the cavern’s portal lies

And level stone of ample size

And sable hue, a mighty block

Long severed from the parent rock.

Now let thine eye bent northward rest

A while upon that mountain crest,

High as a cloud that brings the rain,

And dark as iron rent in twain.

Look southward, brother, now and view

A cloudy pile of paler hue

Like Mount Kailása’s topmost height

Where ores of every tint are bright.

See, Lakshman, see before our cave

That clear brook eastward roll its wave

As though ’twere Gangá’s infant rill

Down streaming from the three-peaked hill.

See, by the water’s gentle flow

Aśoka, sál, and sandal grow.

And every lovely tree most fair

With leaf and bud and flower is there.

See there, beneath the bending trees

That fringe her bank, the river flees,

Clothed with their beauty like a maid

In all her robes and gems arrayed,

While from the sedgy banks are heard

The soft notes of each amorous bird.

O see what lovely islets stud

Like gems the bosom of the flood,

And sárases and wild swans crowd

About her till she laughs aloud.

See, lotus blooms the brook o’erspread,

Some tender blue, some dazzling red,

And opening lilies white as snow

Their buds in rich profusion show.

There rings the joyous peacock’s scream,

There stands the curlew by the stream,

And holy hermits love to throng

Where the sweet waters speed along.

Ranged on the grassy margin shine

Gay sandal trees in glittering line,

And all the wondrous verdure seems

The offspring of creative dreams.

O conquering Prince, there cannot be

A lovelier place than this we see.

Here sheltered on the beauteous height

Our days will pass in calm delight.

Nor is Kishkindhá’s city, gay

With grove and garden, far away.

Thence will the breeze of evening bring

Sweet music as the minstrels sing;

And, when the Vánars dance, will come

The sound of tabour and of drum.

Again to spouse and realm restored,

Girt by his friends, the Vánar lord

Great glory has acquired; and how

Can he be less than happy now?”

This said, the son of Raghu made

His dwelling in that pleasant shade

Upon the mountain’s shelving side

That sweetly all his wants supplied.

But still the hero’s troubled mind

No comfort in his woe could find,

Yet mourning for his stolen wife

Dearer to Ráma than his life,

Chief when he saw the Lord of Night

Rise slowly o’er the eastern height,

He tossed upon his leafy bed

With eyes by sleep unvisited.

Outwelled the tears in ceaseless flow,

And every sense was numbed by woe.

Each pang that pierced the mourner through

Smote Lakshmaṇ’s faithful bosom too,

Who, troubled for his brother’s sake,

With wisest words the prince bespake:

“Arise, my brother, and be strong:

Thy hero heart has mourned too long.

Thou knowest well that tears and sighs

Will mar the mightiest enterprise.

Thine was the soul that loved to dare:

To serve the Gods was still thy care;

And ne’er may sorrow’s sting subdue

A heart so resolute and true.

How canst thou hope to slay in fight

The giant cruel in his might?

Unwearied must the champion be

Who strives with such a foe as he.

Tear out this sorrow by the root;

Again be bold and resolute.

Arise, my brother, and subdue

The demon and his wicked crew.

Thou canst destroy the earth, her seas,

Her rooted hills and giant trees

Unseated by thy furious hand:

And shall one fiend thy power withstand?

Wait through this season of the rain

Till suns of autumn dry the plain,

Then shall thy giant foe, and all

His host and realm, before thee fall.

I wake thy valour that has slept

Amid the tears thine eyes have wept;

As drops of oil in worship raise

The dormant flame to sudden blaze.”

The son of Raghu heard: he knew

His brother’s rede was wise and true;

And, honouring his friendly guide,

In gentle words he thus replied:

“Whate’er a hero firm and bold,

Devoted, true, and lofty-souled

Should speak by deep affection led,

Such are the words which thou hast said.

I cast away each pensive thought

That brings the noblest plans to naught,

And each uninjured power will strain

Until the purposed end we gain.

Thy prudent words will I obey,

And till the close of rain-time stay,

When King Sugríva will invite

To action, and the streams be bright.

The hero saved in hour of need

Repays the debt with friendly deed:

But hated by the good are they

Who take the boon and ne’er repay.”

Canto XXVIII. The Rains.

“See, brother, see” thus Ráma cried

On Mályavat’s(618) dark-wooded side,

“A chain of clouds, like lofty hills,

The sky with gathering shadow fills.

Nine months those clouds have borne the load

Conceived from sunbeams as they glowed,

And, having drunk the seas, give birth,

And drop their offspring on the earth.

Easy it seems at such a time

That flight of cloudy stairs to climb,

And, from their summit, safely won,

Hang flowery wreaths about the sun.

See how the flash of evening’s red

Fringes the fleecy clouds o’erhead

Till all the sky is streaked and lined

With bleeding wounds incarnadined,

Or the wide firmament above

Shows like a lover sick with love

And, pale with cloudlets, heaves a sigh

In the soft breeze that wanders by.

See, by the fervent heat embrowned,

How drenched with recent showers, the ground

Pours out in floods her gushing tears,

Like Sítá wild with torturing fears.

So softly blows this cloud-born breeze

Cool through the boughs of camphor trees

That one might hold it in the cup

Of hollowed hands and drink it up.

See, brother, where that rocky steep,

Where odorous shrubs in rain-drops weep,

Shows like Sugríva when they shed

Tne royal balm upon his head.

Like students at their task appear

These hills whose misty peaks are near:

Black deerskin(619) garments wrought of cloud

Their forms with fitting mantles shroud,

Each torrent from the summit poured

Supplies the place of sacred cord.(620)

And winds that in their caverns moan

Sound like the voice’s undertone.(621)

From east to west red lightnings flash,

And, quivering neath the golden lash,

The great sky like a generous steed

Groans inly at each call to speed.

Yon lightning, as it flashes through

The giant cloud of sable hue,

Recalls my votaress Sítá pressed

Mid struggles to the demon’s breast.

See, on those mountain ridges stand

Sweet shrubs that bud and bloom expand.

The soft rain ends their pangs of grief,

And drops its pearls on flower and leaf.

But all their raptures stab me through

And wake my pining love anew.(622)

Now through the air no wild bird flies,

Each lily shuts her weary eyes;

And blooms of opening jasmin show

The parting sun has ceased to glow.

No captain now for conquest burns,

But homeward with his host returns;

For roads and kings’ ambitious dreams

Have vanished neath descending streams.

This is the watery month(623) wherein

The Sámar’s(624) sacred chants begin.

Áshádha(625) past, now Kośal’s lord(626)

The harvest of the spring has stored,(627)

And dwells within his palace freed

From every care of pressing need.

Full is the moon, and fierce and strong

Impetuous Sarjú(628) roars along

As though Ayodhyá’s crowds ran out

To greet their king with echoing shout.

In this sweet time of ease and rest

No care disturbs Sugríva’s breast,

The foe that marred his peace o’erthrown,

And queen and realm once more his own.

Alas, a harder fate is mine,

Reft both of realm and queen to pine,

And, like the bank which floods erode,

I sink beneath my sorrow’s load.

Sore on my soul my miseries weigh,

And these long rains our action stay,

While Rávan seems a mightier foe

Than I dare hope to overthrow.

I saw the roads were barred by rain,

I knew the hopes of war were vain;

Nor could I bid Sugríva rise,

Though prompt to aid my enterprise.

E’en now I scarce can urge my friend

On whom his house and realm depend,

Who, after toil and peril past,

Is happy with his queen at last.

Sugríva after rest will know

The hour is come to strike the blow,

Nor will his grateful soul forget

My succour, or deny the debt

I know his generous heart, and hence

Await the time with confidence

When he his friendly zeal will show,

And brooks again untroubled flow.”(629)

Canto XXIX. Hanumán’s Counsel.

No flash of lightning lit the sky,

No cloudlet marred the blue on high.

The Saras(630) missed the welcome rain,

The moon’s full beams were bright again.

Sugríva, lapped in bliss, forgot

The claims of faith, or heeded not;

And by alluring joys misled

The path of falsehood learned to tread.

In careless ease he passed each hour,

And dallied in his lady’s bower.

Each longing of his heart was stilled,

And every lofty hope fulfilled.

With royal Rumá by his side,

Or Tárá yet a dearer bride,

He spent each joyous day and night

In revelry and wild delight,

Like Indra whom the nymphs entice

To taste the joys of Paradise.

The power to courtiers’ hands resigned,

To all their acts his eyes were blind.

All doubt, all fear he cast aside

And lived with pleasure for his guide.

But sage Hanúmán, firm and true,

Whose heart the lore of Scripture knew,

Well trained to meet occasion, trained

In all by duty’s law ordained,

Strove with his prudent speech to find

Soft access to the monarch’s mind.

He, skilled in every gentle art

Of eloquence that wins the heart,

Sugríva from his trance to wake,

His salutary counsel spake:

“The realm is won, thy name advanced,

The glory of thy house enhanced,

And now thy foremost care should be

To aid the friends who succoured thee.

He who is firm and faithful found

To friendly ties in honour bound,

Will see his name and fame increase

And his blest kingdom thrive in peace.

Wide sway is his who truly boasts

That friends and treasure, self and hosts,

All blent in one harmonious whole,

Are subject to his firm control.

Do thou, whose footsteps never stray

From the clear bounds of duty’s way,

Assist, as honour bids thee, now

Thy friends, observant of thy vow.

For if all cares we lay not by,

And to our friend’s assistance fly,

We, after, toil in idle haste,

And all the late endeavour waste.

Up! nor the promised help delay

Until the hour have slipped away.

Up! and with Raghu’s son renew

The search for Sítá lost to view.

The hour is come: he hears the call,

But not on thee reproaches fall

From him who labours to repress

His eager spirit’s restlessness.

Long joined to thee in friendly ties

He made thy fame and fortune rise,

In gentle gifts by none excelled.

In splendid might unparalleled.

Up, to his succour, King! repay

The favour of that prosperous day,

And to thy bravest captains send

Prompt mandates to assist thy friend.

The cry for help thou wilt not spurn

Although no grace demands return:

And wilt thou not thine aid afford

To him who realm and life restored?

Exert thy power, and thou hast won

The love of Daśaratha’s son:

And wilt thou for his summons wait,

And, till he call thee, hesitate?

Think not the hero needs thy power

To save him in the desperate hour:

He with his arrows could subdue

The Gods and all the demon crew,

And only waits that he may see

Redeemed the promise made by thee.

For thee he risked his life and fought,

For thee that great deliverance wrought.

Then let us trace through earth and skies

His lady wheresoe’er she lies.

Through realms above, beneath, we flee,

And plant our footsteps on the sea.

Then why, O Lord of Vánars, still

Delay us waiting for thy will?

Give thy commands, O King, and say

What task has each and where the way.

Before thee myriad Vánars stand

To sweep through heaven, o’er seas and land.”

Sugríva heard the timely rede

That roused him in the day of need,

And thus to Níla prompt and brave

His hest the imperial Vánar gave:

“Go, Níla, to the distant hosts

That keep in arms their several posts,

And all the armies that protect

The quarters,(631) with their chiefs, collect.

To all the luminaries placed

In intermediate regions haste,

And bid each captain rise and lead

His squadrons to their king with speed.

Do thou meanwhile with strictest care

All that the time requires prepare.

The loitering Vánar who delays

To gather here ere thrice five days,

Shall surely die for his offence,

Condemned for sinful negligence.”

Canto XXX. Ráma’s Lament.

But Ráma in the autumn night

Stood musing on the mountain height,

While grief and love that scorned control

Shook with wild storms the hero’s soul.

Clear was the sky, without a cloud

The glory of the moon to shroud.

And bright with purest silver shone

Each hill the soft beams looked upon.

He knew Sugríva’s heart was bent

On pleasure, gay and negligent.

He thought on Janak’s child forlorn

From his fond arms for ever torn.

He mourned occasion slipping by,

And faint with anguish heaved each sigh.

He sat where many a varied streak

Of rich ore marked the mountain peak.

He raised his eyes the sky to view,

And to his love his sad thoughts flew.

He heard the Sáras cry, and faint

With sorrow poured his love-born plaint:

“She, she who mocked the softest tone

Of wild birds’ voices with her own,—

Where strays she now, my love who played

So happy in our hermit shade?

How can my absent love behold

The bright trees with their flowers of gold,

And all their gleaming glory see

With eyes that vainly look for me?

How is it with my darling when

From the deep tangles of the glen

Float carols of each bird elate

With rapture singing to his mate?

In vain my weary glances rove

From lake to hill, from stream to grove:

I find no rapture in the scene,

And languish for my fawn-eyed queen.

Ah, does strong love with wild unrest,

Born of the autumn, stir her breast?

And does the gentle lady pine

Till her bright eyes shall look in mine?”

Thus Raghu’s son in piteous tone,

O’erwhelmed with sorrow, made his moan.

E’en as the bird that drinks the rains(632)

To Indra thousand-eyed complains.

Then Lakshmaṇ who had wandered through

The copses where the berries grew,

Returning to the cavern found

His brother chief in sorrow drowned,

And pitying the woes that broke

The spirit of the hero spoke:

“Why cast thy strength of soul away,

And weakly yield to passion’s sway?

Arise, my brother, do and dare

Ere action perish in despair.

Recall the firmness of thy heart,

And nerve thee for a hero’s part.

Whose is the hand unscathed to sieze

The red flame quickened by the breeze?

Where is the foe will dare to wrong

Or keep the Maithil lady long?”

Then with pale lips that sorrow dried

The son of Raghu thus replied:

“Lord Indra thousand-eyed, has sent

The sweet rain from the firmament,

Sees the rich promise of the grain,

And turns him to his rest again.

The clouds with voices loud and deep,

Veiling each tree upon the steep,

Up on the thirsty earth have shed

Their precious burden and are fled.

Now in kings’ hearts ambition glows:

They rush to battle with their foes;(633)

But in Sugríva’s sloth I see

No care for deeds of chivalry.

See, Lakshmaṇ, on each breezy height

A thousand autumn blooms are bright.

See how the wings of wild swans gleam

On every islet of the stream.

Four months of flood and rain are past:

A hundred years they seemed to last

To me whom toil and trouble tried,

My Sítá severed from my side.

She, gentlest woman, weak and young,

Still to her lord unwearied clung.

Still by the exile’s side she stood

In the wild ways of Daṇḍak wood,

Like a fond bird disconsolate

If parted from her darling mate.

Sugríva, lapped in soft repose,

Untouched by pity for my woes,

Scorns the poor exile, dispossessed,

By Rávaṇ’s mightier arm oppressed,

The wretch who comes to sue and pray

From his lost kingdom far away.

Hence falls on me the Vánar’s scorn,

A suitor friendless and forlorn.

The time is come: with heedless eye

He sees the hour of action fly,—

Unmindful, now his hopes succeed,

Of promise made in stress of need.

Go seek him sunk in bliss and sloth,

Forgetful of his royal oath,

And as mine envoy thus upbraid

The monarch for his help delayed:

“Vile is the wretch who will not pay

The favour of an earlier day,

Hope in the supplicant’s breast awakes,

And then his plighted promise breaks.

Noblest, mid all of women born,

Who keeps the words his lips have sworn,

Yea, if those words be good or ill,

Maintains his faith unbroken still.

The thankless who forget to aid

The friend who helped them when they prayed,

Dishonoured in their death shall lie,

And dogs shall pass their corpses by.

Sure thou wouldst see my strained arm hold

My bow of battle backed with gold,

Wouldst gaze upon its awful form

Like lightning flashing through the storm,

And hear the clanging bowstring loud

As thunder from a labouring cloud.”

His valour and his strength I know:

But pleasure’s sway now sinks them low,

With thee, my brother, for ally

That strength and valour I defy.

He promised, when the rains should end,

The succour of his arm to lend.

Those months are past: he dares forget,

And, lapped in pleasure, slumbers yet.

No thought disturbs his careless breast

For us impatient and distressed,

And, while we sadly wait and pine,

Girt by his lords he quaffs the wine.

Go, brother, go, his palace seek,

And boldly to Sugríva speak,

Thus give the listless king to know

What waits him if my anger glow:

Still open, to the gloomy God,

Lies the sad path that Báli trod.

“Still to thy plighted word be true,

Lest thou, O King, that path pursue.

I launched the shaft I pointed well.

And Báli, only Báli, fell.

But, if from truth thou dare to stray,

Both thee and thine this hand shall slay.”

Thus be the Vánar king addressed,

Then add thyself what seems the best.”

Canto XXXI. The Envoy.

Thus Ráma spoke, and Lakshmaṇ then

Made answer to the prince of men:

“Yea, if the Vánar, undeterred

By fear of vengeance, break his word,

Loss of his royal power ere long

Shall pay the traitor for the wrong.

Nor deem I him so void of sense

To brave the bitter consequence.

But if enslaved to joy he lie,

And scorn thy grace with blinded eye,

Then let him join his brother slain:

Unmeet were such a wretch to reign.

Quick rises, kindling in my breast,

The wrath that will not be repressed,

And bids me in my fury slay

The breaker of his faith to-day.

Let Báli’s son thy consort trace

With bravest chiefs of Vánar race.”

Thus spoke the hero, and aglow

With rage of battle seized his bow.

But Ráma thus in gentler mood

With fitting words his speech renewed:

“No hero with a soul like thine

To paths of sin will e’er incline,

He who his angry heart can tame

Is worthiest of a hero’s name.

Not thine, my brother, be the part

So alien from the tender heart,

Nor let thy feet by wrath misled

Forsake the path they loved to tread.

From harsh and angry words abstain:

With gentle speech a hearing gain,

And tax Sugríva with the crime

Of failing faith and wasted time.”

Then Lakshmaṇ, bravest of the brave,

Obeyed the hest that Ráma gave,

To whom devoting every thought

The Vánar’s royal town he sought.

As Mandar’s mountain heaves on high

His curved peak soaring to the sky,

So Lakshmaṇ showed, his dread bow bent

Like Indra’s(634) in the firmament.

His brother’s wrath, his brother’s woe

Inflamed his soul to fiercest glow.

The tallest trees to earth were cast

As furious on his way he passed,

And where he stepped, so fiercely fleet,

The stones were shivered by his feet.

He reached Kishkindhá’s city deep

Embosomed where the hills were steep,

Where street and open square were lined

With legions of the Vánar kind.

Then, as his lips with fury swelled,

The lord of Raghu’s line beheld

A stream of Vánar chiefs outpoured

To do obeisance to their lord.

But when the mighty prince in view

Of the thick coming Vánars drew,

They turned them in amaze to seize

Crags of the rock and giant trees.

He saw, and fiercer waxed his ire,

As oil lends fury to the fire.

Scarce had the Vánar chieftains seen

That wrathful eye, that troubled mien

Fierce as the God’s who rules the dead,

When, turned in wild affright, they fled.

Speeding in breathless terror all

Sought King Sugríva’s council hall,

And there made known their tale of fear,

That Lakshmaṇ wild with rage, was near.

The king, untroubled by alarms,

Held Tárá in his amorous arms,

And in the distant bower with her

Heard not each clamorous messenger.

Then, summoned at the lords’ behest

Forth from the city portals pressed,

Each like some elephant or cloud,

The Vánars in a trembling crowd:

Fierce warriors all with massive jaws

And terrors of their tiger claws,

Some matched ten elephants, and some

A hundred’s strength could overcome.

Some chieftains, mightier than the rest,

Ten times a hundred’s force possessed.

With eyes of fury Lakshmaṇ viewed

The Vánars’ tree-armed multitude.

Thus garrisoned from side to side

The city walls assault defied.

Beyond the moat that girt the wall

Advanced the Vánar chiefs; and all

Upon the plain in firm brigade,

Impetuous warriors, stood arrayed.

Red at the sight flashed Lakshmaṇ’s eyes,

His bosom heaved tumultuous sighs,

And forth the fire of fury broke

Like flame that flashes through the smoke.

Like some fierce snake the hero stood:

His bow recalled the expanded hood,

And in his shaft-head bright and keen

The flickering of its tongue was seen:

And in his own all-conquering might

The venom of its deadly bite.

Prince Angad marked his angry look,

And every hope his heart forsook.

Then, his large eyes with fury red,

To Angad Lakshmaṇ turned and said:

“Go tell the king that Lakshmaṇ waits

For audience at the city gates,

Whose heart, O tamer of thy foes,

Is heavy with his brother’s woes.

Bid him to Ráma’s word attend,

And ask if he will aid his friend.

Go, let the king my message learn:

Then hither with all speed return.”

Prince Angad heard and wild with grief

Cried as he looked upon the chief:

“’Tis Lakshmaṇ’s self: impelled by ire

He seeks the city of my sire.”

At the fierce words and furious look

Of Raghu’s son he quailed and shook.

Back through the city gates he sped,

And, laden with the tale of dread,

Sought King Sugríva, filled his ears

And Rumá’s with his doubts and fears.

To Rumá and the king he bent,

And clasped their feet most reverent,

Clasped the dear feet of Tárá, too,

And told the startling tale anew.

But King Sugríva’s ear was dulled,

By love and wine and languor lulled,

Nor did the words that Angad spake

The slumberer from his trance awake.

But soon as Raghu’s son came nigh

The startled Vánars raised a cry,

And strove to win his grace, while dread

Each anxious heart disquieted.

They saw, and, as they gathered round,

Rose from the mighty throng a sound

Like torrents when they downward dash,

Or thunder with the lightning’s flash.

The shouting of the Vánars broke

Sugríva’s slumber, and he woke:

Still with the wine his eyes were red,

His neck with flowers was garlanded.

Roused at the voice of Angad came

Two Vánar lords of rank and fame;

One Yaksha, one Prabháva hight,—

Wise counsellors of gain and right.

They came and raised their voices high,

And told that Raghu’s son was nigh:

“Two brothers steadfast in their truth,

Each glorious in the bloom of youth,

Worthy of rule, have left the skies,

And clothed their forms in men’s disguise.

One at thy gates, in warlike hands

Holding his mighty weapon, stands.

His message is the charioteer

That brings the eager envoy near,

Urged onward by his bold intent,

And by the hest of Ráma sent.”

The gathered Vánars saw and fled,

And raised aloud their cry of dread.

Son of Queen Tárá, Angad ran

To parley with the godlike man.

Still fiery-eyed with rage and hate

Stands Lakshmaṇ at the city gate,

And trembling Vánars scarce can fly

Scathed by the lightning of his eye.

“Go with thy son, thy kith and kin,

The favour of the prince to win,

And bow thy reverent head that so

His fiery wrath may cease to glow.

What righteous Ráma bids thee, do,

And to thy plighted word be true.”

Canto XXXII. Hanumán’s Counsel.

Sugríva heard, and, trained and tried

In counsel, to his lords replied:

“No deed of mine, no hasty word

The anger of the prince has stirred.

But haply some who hate me still

And watch their time to work me ill,

Have slandered me to Raghu’s son,

Accused of deeds I ne’er have done.

Now, O my lords—for you are wise—

Speak truly what your hearts advise,

And, pondering each event, inquire

The reason of the prince’s ire.

No fear have I of Lakshmaṇ: none:

No dread of Raghu’s mightier son.

But wrath, that fires a friendly breast

Without due cause, disturbs my rest.

With labour light is friendship gained,

But with severest toil maintained.

And doubt is strong, and faith is weak,

And friendship dies when traitors speak.

Hence is my troubled bosom cold

With fear of Ráma lofty-souled;

For heavy on my spirit weigh

His favours I can ne’er repay.”

He ceased: and Hanumán of all

The Vánars in the council hall

In wisdom first, and rank, expressed

The thoughts that filled his prudent breast:

“No marvel thou rememberest yet

The service thou shouldst ne’er forget,

How the brave prince of Raghu’s seed

Thy days from fear and peril freed;

And Báli for thy sake o’erthrew,

Whom Indra’s self might scarce subdue.

I doubt not Ráma’s anger burns

For the scant love thy heart returns.

For this he sends his brother, him

Whose glory never waxes dim.

Sunk in repose thy careless eye

Marks not the seasons as they fly,

Nor sees that autumn has begun

With dark blooms opening to the sun.

Clear is the sky: no cloudlet mars

The splendour of the shining stars.

The balmy air is soft and still,

And clear and bright are lake and rill.

Thou heedest not with blinded eyes

The hour for warlike enterprise.

Hence Lakshmaṇ hither comes to break

Thy slothful trance and bid thee wake.

Then, Monarch, with a patient ear

The high-souled Ráma’s message hear,

Which, reft of wife and realm and friends,

Thus by another’s mouth he sends.

Thou, Vánar King, hast done amiss:

And now I see no way but this:

Before his envoy humbly stand

And sue for peace with suppliant hand.

High duty bids a courtier seek

His master’s weal, and freely speak.

So by no thought of fear controlled

My speech, O King, is free and bold,

For Ráma, if his anger glow,

Can, with the terrors of his bow

This earth with all the Gods subdue,

Gandharvas,(635) and the demon crew.

Unwise to stir his wrathful mood

Whose favour must again be wooed.

And, most of all, unwise for one

Grateful like thee for service done.

Go with thy son and kinsmen: bend

Thy humble head and greet thy friend.

And, like a fond obedient spouse,

Be faithful to thy plighted vows.”

Canto XXXIII. Lakshman’s Entry.

Through the fair city Lakshmaṇ came,

Invited in Sugríva’s name.

Within the gates the guardian bands,

Of Vánars raised their suppliant hands,

And in their ordered ranks, amazed,

Upon the princely hero gazed,

They marked each burning breath he drew,

The fury of his soul they knew.

Their hearts were chilled with sudden fear:

They gazed, but dared not venture near,

Before his eyes the city, gay

With gems and flowery gardens, lay,

Where fane and palace rose on high,

And things of beauty charmed the eye.

Where trees of every blossom grew

Yielding their fruit in season due

To Vánars of celestial seed

Who wore each varied form at need,

Fair-faced and glorious with the shine

Of heavenly robes and wreaths divine.

There sandal, aloe, lotus bloomed,

And there delicious breath perfumed

The city’s broad street, redolent

Of sugary mead(636) and honey scent.

There many a lofty palace rose

Like Vindhya or the Lord of Snows,

And with sweet murmur sparkling rills

Leapt lightly down the sheltering hills.

On many a glorious palace, raised

For prince and noble,(637) Lakshmaṇ gazed:

Like clouds of paly hue they shone

With fragrant wreaths that hung thereon:

There wealth of jewels was enshrined,

And fairer gems of womankind.

There gleamed, of noble height and size,

Like Indra’s mansion in the skies,

Protected by a crystal fence

Of rock, the royal residence,

With roof and turret high and bright

Like Mount Kailása’s loftiest height.

There blooming trees, Mahendra’s gift,

High o’er the walls were seen to lift

Their golden fruited boughs, that made

With leaf and flower delicious shade.

He saw a band of Vánars wait,

Wielding their weapons, at the gate

Where golden portals flashed between

Celestial garlands red and green.

Within Sugríva’s fair abode

Unchecked the mighty hero strode,

As when the sun of autumn shrouds

His glory in a pile of clouds.

Through seven wide courts he quickly passed,

And reached the royal tower at last,

Where seats were set with couch and bed

Of gold and silver richly spread.

While the young chieftain’s feet drew near

The sound of music reached his ear,

As the soft breathings of the flute

Came blending with the voice and lute.

Then beauty showed her youth and grace

And varied charm of form and face:

Soft bright-eyed creatures, fair and young,—

Gay garlands round their necks were hung,

And greater charms to each were lent

By richest dress and ornament.

He saw the calm attendants wait

About their lord in careless state,

Heard women’s girdles chime in sweet

Accordance with their tinkling feet.

He heard the anklet’s silvery sound,

He saw the calm that reigned around,

And o’er him, as he listened, came

A rush of rage, a flood of shame.

He drew his bowstring: with the clang

From ease to west the welkin rang:

Then in his modest mood withdrew

A little from the ladies’ view.

And sternly silent stood apart,

While wrath for Ráma filled his heart.

Sugríva knew the sounding string,

And at the call the Vánar king

Sprang swiftly from his golden seat,

And feared the coming prince to meet.

Then with cold lips that terror dried

To beauteous Tárá thus he cried:

“What cause of anger, O my spouse

Fair with the charm of lovely brows,

Sets Lakshmaṇ’s gentle breast on fire,

And brings him in unwonted ire?

Say, canst thou see, O faultless dame,

A cause to fill his soul with flame?

For there must be a reason when

Such fury stirs the king of men.

Reveal the sin, if sin of mine

Anger the lord of Raghu’s line.

Or go thyself, his rage subdue,

And with soft words his favour woo.

Soon as on thee his eyes are set

His heart this anger will forget,

For men like him of lofty mind

Are never stern with womankind.

First let thy gentle speech disarm

His fury, and his spirit charm,

And I, from fear of peril free,

The conqueror of his foes will see.”

She heard: with faltering steps and slow,

With eyes that shone with trembling glow,

With gold-girt body gently bent

To meet the stranger prince she went.

When Lakshmaṇ saw the Vánar queen

With tranquil eyes and modest mien,

Before the dame he bent his head,

And anger, at her presence, fled.

Made bold by draughts of wine, and cheered

By Lakshmaṇ’s look no more she feared,

And in the trust his favour lent

She thus addressed him eloquent:

“Whence springs thy burning fury? say:

Who dares thy will to disobey?

Who checks the maddened flames that seize

On forests full of withered trees?”

Then Lakshmaṇ spoke, her mind to ease,

His kind reply in words like these:

“Thy lord his days in pleasure spends,

Heedless of duty and of friends,

Nor dost thou mark, though fondly true,

The evil path his steps pursue.

He cares not for affairs of state,

Nor us forlorn and desolate,

But sits a mere spectator still,

A sensual slave to pleasure’s will.

Four months were fixed, the time agreed

When he should help us in our need:

But, bound in toils of pleasure fast,

He sees not that the months are past.

Where beats the heart which draughts of wine

To virtue or to gain incline?

Hast thou not heard those draughts destroy

Virtue and gain and love and joy?

For those who, helped at need, refuse

Their aid in turn, their virtue lose:

And they who scorn a friend disdain

A treasure naught may buy again.

Thy lord has cast his friend away,

Nor feared from virtue’s path to stray,

If this be true, declare, O dame

Who knowest duty’s every claim,

What further work remains for us

Deceived and disappointed thus.”

She listened, for his words were kind,

Where virtue showed with gain combined,

And thus in turn the prince addressed,

As hope was rising in his breast:

“No time, no cause of wrath I see

With those who live and honour thee:

And thou shouldst bear without offence

Thy servant’s fitful negligence.

I know the seasons glide away,

While Ráma maddens at delay

I know what deed our thanks has earned,

I know that grace should be returned.

But still I know, whate’er befall,

That conquering love is lord of all;

Know where Sugríva’s thoughts, possessed

By one absorbing passion, rest.

But he whom sensual joys debase

Heeds not the claim of time and place,

And sees not with his blinded sight

His duty or his gain aright.

O pardon him who loves me! spare

The Vánar caught in pleasure’s snare,

And once again let Ráma grace

With favour him who rules our race.

E’en royal saints, whose chief delight

Was penance and austerest rite,

At love’s commandment have unbent,

Beguiled by sweetest blandishment.

And know, Sugríva, roused at last,

The order to his lords has passed,

And, long by love and bliss delayed,

Wakes all on fire your hopes to aid.

A countless host his city fills,

New-gathered from a thousand hills:

Impetuous chiefs, who wear at need

Each varied form, his legions lead.

Come then, O hero, kept aloof

By modest awe, nor fear reproof:

A faithful friend untouched by blame

May look upon another’s dame.”

He passed within, by Tárá pressed,

And by his own impatient breast,

Refulgent there in sunlike sheen

Sugríva on his throne was seen.

Gay garlands round his neck were twined,

And Rumá by her lord recline.

Canto XXXIV. Lakshman’s Speech.

Sugríva started from his rest

With doubt and terror in his breast.

He heard the prince’s furious tread

He saw his eyes glow fiercely red.

Swift sprang the monarch to his feet

Upstarting from his golden seat.

Rose Rumá and her fellows, too,

And closely round Sugríva drew,

As round the moon’s full glory stand

Attendant stars in glittering band.

Sugríva glanced with reddened eyes,

Raised his joined hands in suppliant guise

Flew to the door, and rooted there

Stood like the tree that grants each prayer.(638)

And Lakshmaṇ saw, and, fiercely moved,

With angry speech the king reproved:

“Famed is the prince who loves the truth,

Whose soul is touched with tender ruth,

Who, liberal, keeps each sense subdued,

And pays the debt of gratitude.

But all unmeet a king to be,

The meanest of the mean is he

Who basely breaks the promise made

To trusting friends who lent him aid.

He sins who for a steed has lied,

As if a hundred steeds had died:

Or if he lie, a cow to win,

Tenfold as heavy is the sin.

But if the lie a man betray,

Both he and his shall all decay.(639)

O Vánar King, the thankless man

Is worthy of the general ban,

Who takes assistance of his friends,

And in his turn no service lends.

This verse of old by Brahmá sung

Is echoed now by every tongue.

Hear what He cried in angry mood

Bewailing man’s ingratitude:

“For draughts of wine, for slaughtered cows,

For treacherous theft, for broken vows

A pardon is ordained: but none

For thankless scorn of service done.”

Ungrateful, Vánar King, art thou,

And faithless to thy plighted vow.

For Ráma brought thee help, and yet

Thou shunnest to repay the debt:

Or, grateful, thou hadst surely pressed

To aid the hero in his quest.

Thou art, in vulgar pleasures drowned,

False to thy bond in honour bound.

Nor yet has Ráma’s guileless heart

Discerned thee for the thing thou art—

A snake who holds the frogs that cries

And lures fresh victims as it dies.

Brave Ráma, born for glorious fate,

Has set thee in thy high estate,

And to the Vánars’ throne restored,

Great-souled himself, their mean-souled lord.

Now if thy pride disown what he,

High thoughted prince, has done for thee,

Struck by his arrows shalt thou fall,

And Báli meet in Yáma’s hall.

Still open, to the gloomy God,

Lies the sad path thy brother trod.

Then to thy plighted word be true,

Nor let thy steps that path pursue.

Methinks the shafts of Ráma, shot

Like thunderbolts, thou heedest not,

Who canst, absorbed in sensual bliss,

Thy promise from thy mind dismiss.”

Canto XXXV. Tárá’s Speech.

He ceased: and Tárá starry-eyed

Thus to the angry prince replied:

“Not to my lord shouldst thou address

A speech so fraught with bitterness:

Not thus reproached my lord should be,

And least of all, O Prince, by thee.

He is no thankless coward—no—

With spirit dead to valour’s glow.

From paths of truth he never strays,

Nor wanders in forbidden ways.

Ne’er will Sugríva’s heart forget,

By Ráma saved, the lasting debt.

Still in his grateful breast will live

The succour none but he could give.

Restored to fame by Ráma’s grace,

To empire o’er the Vánar race,

From ceaseless dread and toil set free,

Restored to Rumá and to me:

By grief and care and exile tried,

New to the bliss so long denied,

Like Viśvámitra once, alas,

He marks not how the seasons pass.

That saint ten thousand years remained,

By sweet Ghritáchí’s(640) love enchained,

And deemed those years, that flew away

So lightly, but a single day.

O, if those years unheeded flew

By him who times and seasons knew,

Unequalled for his lofty mind,

What marvel meaner eyes are blind?

Then be not angry, Raghu’s son,

And let thy brother feel for one

Who many a weary year has spent

Stranger to love and blandishment.

Let not this wrath thy soul inflame,

Like some mean wretch unknown to fame:

For high and noble hearts like thine

Love mercy and to ruth incline,

Calm and deliberate, and slow

With anger’s raging fire to glow.

At length, O righteous prince, relent,

Nor let my words in vain be spent,

This sudden blaze of fury slake,

I pray thee for Sugríva’s sake.

He would renounce at Ráma’s call

Rumá and Angad, me and all

Who call him lord: his gold and grain,

The favour of his friend to gain.

His arm shall slay the fiend more base

In soul than all his impious race,

And happy Ráma reunite

To Sítá, rival in delight

Of the triumphant Moon when he

Rejoins his darling Rohiṇí.(641)

Ten million million demons guard

The gates of Lanká firmly barred.

All hope until that host be slain,

To smite the robber king is vain.

Nor with Sugríva’s aid alone

May king and host be overthrown.

Thus ere he died—for well he knew—

Spake Báli, and his words are true.

I know not what his proofs might be,

But speak the words he spake to me.

Hence far and wide our lords are sent

To raise the mightiest armament,

For their return Sugríva waits

Ere he can sally from his gates.

Still is the oath Sugríva swore

Kept firmly even as before:

And the great host this day will be

Assembled by the king’s decree,

Ten thousand thousand troops, who wear

The form of monkey and of bear,

Prepared for thee the war to wage:

Then let thy wrath no longer rage.

The matrons of the Vánar race

See marks of fury in thy face;

They see thine eyes like blood are red,

And will not yet be comforted.”

Canto XXXVI. Sugríva’s Speech.

She ceased: and Lakshmaṇ gave assent,

Won by her gentle argument.

So Tárá’s pleading, just and mild,

His softening heart had reconciled.

His altered mood Sugríva saw,

And cast aside the fear and awe

Like raiment heavy with the rain

Which on his troubled soul had lain.

Then quickly to the ground he threw

His flowery garland, bright of hue,

Which round his royal neck he wore,

And, sobered, was himself once more.

Then turning to the princely man

In soothing words the king began:

“My glory, wealth, and royal sway

To other hands had passed away:

But Ráma to my rescue came,

And gave me back my power and fame.

O Lakshmaṇ, say, whose grateful heart

Could nurse the hope to pay in part,

By service of a life, the deed

Of Ráma sprung of heavenly seed?

His foeman Rávaṇ shall be slain,

And Sítá shall be his again.

The hero’s side I will not leave,

But he the conquest shall achieve.

What need of help has he who drew

His bow, and one great arrow flew

Through seven tall trees, a mountain rent,

And cleft the earth with force unspent?

What aid needs he who shook his bow,

And at the sound the earth below

With hill and wood and rooted rock

Quaked feverous with the thunder shock?

Yet all my legions will I bring,

And follow close the warrior king

Marching on his impetuous way

Fierce Rávaṇ and his hosts to slay.

If I be guilty of offence,

Careless through love or negligence,

Let him his loyal slave forgive;

For error cleaves to all who live.”

Thus king Sugríva, good and brave,

In humble words his answer gave,

Softened was Lakshmaṇ’s angry mood

Who thus his friendly speech renewed:

“My brother, Vánar King, will see

A champion and a friend in thee.

So strong art thou, so brave and bold,

So pure in thought, so humble-souled,

That thou deservest well to reign

And all a monarch’s bliss to gain.

Lend thou my brother aid, and all

His foes beneath his arm will fall.

Full well the words thou speakest suit

A chieftain wise and resolute.

With grateful heart that loves the right,

And foot that never yields in fight.

O come, and my sad brother cheer

Who mourns the wife he holds so dear.

O pardon, friend, my harsh address,

And Ráma’s frantic bitterness.”

Canto XXXVII. The Gathering.

He ceased: and King Sugríva cried

To sage Hanúmán(642) by his side:

“Summon the Vánar legions, those

Who dwell about the Lord of Snows:

Those who in Vindhyan groves delight,

Kailása’s, or Mahendra’s height,

Dwell on the Five bright Peaks, or where

Mandar’s white summit cleaves the air:

Wherever they are wandring free

In highlands by the western sea,

On that east hill whence springs the sun,

Or where he sinks when day is done.

Call the great chiefs whose legions fill

The forests of the Lotus Hill,(643)

Where every one in strength and size

With the stupendous Anjan(644) vies.

Call those, with tints of burnished gold

Whom Maháśaila’s caverns hold:

Those who on Dhúmra roam, or hide

In the wild woods on Meru’s side.

Call those who, brilliant as the sun,

On high Maháruṇ leap and run,

Quaffing sweet juices that distil

From odorous trees upon the hill,

Call those whom tranquil haunts delight,

Where dwell the sage and anchorite

In groves that through their wide extent

Exhale a thousand blossoms’ scent.

Send out, send out: from coast to coast

Assemble all the Vánar host:

With force, with words, with gifts of price

Compel, admonish and entice.

Already envoys have been sent

To warn them of their lord’s intent.

Let others urged by thee repeat

My mandate that their steps be fleet.

Those lords who yielding to the sway

Of love’s delight would fain delay,

Urge hither with the utmost speed,

Or with thee to my presence lead:

And those who linger to the last

Until ten days be come and passed,

And dare their sovereign to defy,

For their offence shall surely die.

Thousands, yea millions, shall there be,

Obedient to their king’s decree,

The lions of the Vánar race,

Assembled from each distant place,

Forth shall they haste like hills in size,

Or mighty clouds that veil the skies,

And swiftly speeding on their way

Bring all our legions in array.”

He ceased: the son of Váyu(645) heard,

Submissive to his sovereign’s word;

And sent his rapid envoys forth

To east and west and south and north.

They bent their airy course afar

Along the paths of bird and star,

And sped through ether farther yet

Where Vishṇu’s splendid sphere is set.(646)

By sea, on hill, by wood and lake

They called to arms for Ráma’s sake,

As each with terror in his breast

Obeyed his awful king’s behest.

Three million Vánars, fierce and strong

As Anjan’s self, a wondrous throng

Sped from the spot where Ráma still

Gazed restless from the woody hill.

Ten million others, brave and bold,

With coats that shone like burning gold,

Came flying from the mountain crest

Where sinks the weary sun to rest.

Impetuous from the northern skies,

Where Mount Kailása’s summits rise,

Ten hundred millions hasted, hued

Like manes of lions, ne’er subdued:

The dwellers on Himálaya’s side,

Whose food his roots and fruit supplied,

With rangers of the Vindhyan chain

And neighbours of the Milky Main.(647)

Some from the palm groves where they fed,

Some from the woods of betel sped:

In countless numbers, fierce and brave,

They came from mountain, lake, and cave.

As on their way the Vánars went

To rouse each distant armament,

They chanced that wondrous tree to view

That on Himálaya’s summit grew.

Of old upon that sacred height

Was wrought Maheśvar’s(648) glorious rite,

Which every God in heaven beheld,

And his glad heart with triumph swelled.

There from pure seed at random sown

Bright plants with luscious fruit had grown,

And, sweet as Amrit to the taste,

The summit of the mountain graced.

Who once should eat the virtuous fruit

That sprang from so divine a root,

One whole revolving moon should be

From every pang of hunger free.

The Vánars culled the fruit they found

Ripe on the sacrificial ground

With rare celestial odours sweet,

To lay them at Sugríva’s feet.

Those noble envoys scoured the land

To summon every Vánar band

Then swiftly homeward at the head

Of countless armaments they sped.

They gathered by Kishkindhá’s wall.

They thronged Sugríva’s palace hall,

And, richly laden, bare within

That fruit of heavenly origin.

Their gifts before their king they spread,

And thus in tones of triumph said:

“Through every land our way we took

To visit hill and wood and brook,

And all thy hosts from east to west

Flock hither at their lord’s behest.”

Sugríva with delighted look

The present of his envoys took,

Then bade them go, with gracious speech

Rewarding and dismissing each.

Canto XXXVIII. Sugríva’s Departure.

Thus all the princely Vánars, true

To their appointed tasks, withdrew.

Sugríva deemed already done

The work he planned for Raghu’s son.

Then Lakshmaṇ gently spoke and cheered

Sugríva for his valour feared:

“Now, chieftain, if thy will be so,

Forth from Kishkindhá let us go.”

Sugríva’s heart swelled high with pride

As to the prince he thus replied:

“Come, speed we forth without delay:

’Tis mine thy mandate to obey.”

Sugríva bade the dames adieu,

And Tárá and the rest withdrew.

Then at their chieftain’s summons came

The Vánars first in rank and fame,

A trusty brave and reverent band,

Meet e’en before a queen to stand.

They at his call made haste to bring

The litter of the glorious king.

“Mount, O my friend.” Sugríva cried,

And straight Sumitrá’s son complied.

Then took by Lakshmaṇ’s side his place

The sovereign of the woodland race,

Upraised by Vánars, fleet and strong,

Who bore the glittering load along.

On high above his royal head

A paly canopy was spread,

And chouries white in many a hand

The forehead of the monarch fanned,

And shell and drum and song and shout

Pealed round him as the king passed out.

About the monarch went a throng

Of Vánar warriors brave and strong,

As onward to the mountain shade

Where Ráma dwelt his way he made.

Soon as the lovely spot he viewed

Where Ráma lived in solitude,

The Vánar monarch, far-renowed,

With Lakshmaṇ, lightly stepped to ground,

And to the son of Raghu went

Joining his raised hands reverent.

As their great leader raised his hands,

So suppliant stood the Vánar bands.

Well pleased the son of Raghu saw

Those legions, hushed in reverent awe,

Stand silent like the tranquil floods

That raise their hands of lotus buds.

But Ráma, when the king, to greet

His friend, had bowed him at his feet,

Raised him who ruled the Vánar race,

And held him in a close embrace:

Then, when his arms he had unknit,

Besought him by his side to sit,

And thus with gentle words the best

Of men the Vánar king addressed:

“The prince who well his days divides,

And knows aright the times and tides

To follow duty, joy, or gain,

He, only he, deserves to reign.

But he who wealth and virtue leaves,

And every hour to pleasure cleaves,

Falls from his bliss like him who wakes

From slumber on a branch that breaks.

True king is he who smites his foes,

And favour to his servants shows,

And of that fruit makes timely use

Which virtue, wealth, and joy produce.

The hour is come that bids thee rise

To aid me in my enterprise.

Then call thy nobles to debate,

And with their help deliberate.”

“Lost was my power,” the king replied,

“All strength had fled, all hope had died.

The Vánars owned another lord,

But by thy grace was all restored.

All this, O conqueror of the foe,

To thee and Lakshmaṇ’s aid I owe.

And his should be the villain’s shame

Who durst deny the sacred claim.

These Vánar chiefs of noblest birth

Have at my bidding roamed the earth,

And brought from distant regions all

Our legions at their monarch’s call:

Fierce bears with monkey troops combined,

And apes of every varied kind,

Terrific in their forms, who dwell

In grove and wood and bosky dell:

The bright Gandharvas’ brood, the seed

Of Gods,(649) they change their shapes at need.

Each with his legions in array,

Hither, O Prince, they make their way.

They come: and tens of millions swell

To numbers that no tongue may tell.(650)

For thee their armies will unite

With chiefs, Mahendra’s peers in might.

From Meru and from Vindhya’s chain

They come like clouds that bring the rain.

These round thee to the war will go,

To smite to earth thy demon foe;

Will slay the Rákshas and restore

Thy consort when the fight is o’er.”

Canto XXXIX. The Vánar Host.

Then Ráma, best of all who guide

Their steps by duty, thus replied:

“What marvel if Lord Indra send

The kindly rain, O faithful friend?

If, thousand-rayed, the God of Day

Drive every darksome cloud away?

Or, rising high, the Lord of Night

Flood the broad heaven with silver light?

What marvel, King, that one like thee

The glory of his friends should be?

No marvel, O my lord, that thou

Hast shown thy noble nature now.

Thy heart, Sugríva, well I know:

Naught from thy lips but truth may flow,

With thee for friend and champion all

My foes beneath my arm will fall.

The Rákshas, when my queen he stole,

Brought sure destruction on his soul,

Like Anuhláda(651) who beguiled

Queen Śachí called Puloma’s child.

Yes, near, Sugríva, is the day

When I my demon foe shall slay,

As conquering Indra in his ire

Slew Queen Paulomí’s haughty sire.”(652)

He ceased: thick clouds of dust rose high

To every quarter of the sky:

The very sun grew faint and pale

Behind the darkly-gathering veil.

The mighty clouds that hung o’erhead

From east to west thick darkness spread,

And earth to her foundations shook

With hill and forest, lake and brook.

Then hidden was the ground beneath

Fierce warriors armed with fearful teeth,

Hosts numberless, each lord in size

A match for him who rules the skies:

From many a sea and distant hill,

From rock and river, lake and rill.

Some like the morning sun were bright,

Some, like the moon, were silver white:

These green as lotus fibres, those

White-coated from their native snows.(653)

Then Śatabali came in view

Girt by a countless retinue.

Like some gold mountain high in air

Tárá’s illustrious sire(654) was there.

There Rumá‘s father,(655) far-renowned,

With tens of thousands ranged around.

There, tinted like the tender green

Of lotus filaments, was seen,

Compassed by countless legions, one

Whose face was as the morning sun,

Hanúmán’s father good and great,

Kesarí,(656) wisest in debate.

There the proud king Gaváksha, feared

For his strong warrior arm, appeared.

There Dhúmra, mighty lord, the dread

Of foes, his ursine legions led.

There Panas, first for warlike fame,

With twenty million warriors came.

There glorious Níla, dark of hue,

Arrayed his countless troops in view.

There moved lord Gavaya brave and bold,

Resplendent like a hill of gold,

And near him Darímukha stood

With millions from the hill and wood

And Dwivid famed for strength and speed,

And Mamda, both of Aśvin seed.

There Gaja, strong and glorious, led

The countless troops around him spread,

And Jámbaván(657) the king whose sway

The bears delighted to obey,

With swarming myriads onward pressed

True to his lord Sugríva’s hest;

And princely Ruman, dear to fame,

Led millions whom no hosts could tame,

All these and many a chief beside(658)

Came onward fierce in warlike pride.

They covered all the plain, and still

Pressed forward over wood and hill.

In rows for many a league around

They rested on the grassy ground;

Or to Sugríva made their way,

Like clouds about the Lord of Day,

And to the king their proud heads bent

In power and might preeminent.

Sugríva then to Ráma sped,

And raised his reverent hands, and said

That every chief from coast to coast

Was present with his warrior host.

Canto XL. The Army Of The East.

With practised eye the king reviewed

The Vánars’ countless multitude,

And, joying that his hest was done,

Thus spake to Raghu’s mighty son:

“See, all the Vánar hosts who fear

My sovereign might are gathered here.

Chiefs strong as Indra’s self, who speed

Wher’er they list, these armies lead.

Fierce and terrific to the view

As Daityas or the Dánav(659) crew,

Famed in all lands for souls afire

With lofty thoughts, they never tire,

O’er hill and vale they wander free,

And islets of the distant sea.

And these gathered myriads, all

Will serve thee, Ráma, at thy call.

Whate’er thy heart advises, say:

Thy mandates will the host obey.”

Then answered Ráma, as he pressed

The Vánar monarch to his breast:

“O search for my lost Sítá, strive

To find her if she still survive:

And in thy wondrous wisdom trace

Fierce Rávaṇ to his dwelling-place.

And when by toil and search we know

Where Sítá lies and where the foe,

With thee, dear friend, will I devise

Fit means to end the enterprise.

Not mine, not Lakshmaṇ’s is the power

To guide us in the doubtful hour.

Thou, sovereign of the Vánars, thou

Must be our hope and leader now.”

He ceased: at King Sugríva’s call

Near came a Vánar strong and tall.

Huge as a towering mountain, loud

As some tremendous thunder cloud,

A prince who warlike legions led:

To him his sovereign turned and said:

“Go, take ten thousand(660) of our race

Well trained in lore of time and place,

And search the eastern region; through

Groves, woods, and hills thy way pursue.

There seek for Sítá, trace the spot

Where Rávaṇ hides, and weary not.

Search for the captive in the caves

Of mountains, and by woods and waves.

To Sarjú,(661) Kauśikí,(662) repair,

Bhagírath’s daughter(663) fresh and fair.

Search mighty Yamun’s(664) peak, explore

Swift Yamuná’s(665) delightful shore,

Sarasvati(666) and Sindhu’s(667) tide,

And rapid Śona’s(668) pebbly side.

Then roam afar by Mahí’s(669) bed

Where Kálamahí’s groves are spread.

Go where the silken tissue shines,

Go to the land of silver mines.(670)

Visit each isle and mountain steep

And city circled by the deep,

And distant villages that high

About the peaks of Mandar lie.

Speed over Yavadwipa’s land,(671)

And see Mount Śiśir(672) proudly stand

Uplifting to the skies his head

By Gods and Dánavs visited.

Search each ravine and mountain pass,

Each tangled thicket deep in grass.

Search every cave with utmost care

If haply Ráma’s queen be there.

Then pass beyond the sounding sea

Where heavenly beings wander free,

And Śona’s(673) waters swift and strong

With ruddy billows foam along.

Search where his shelving banks descend,

Search where the hanging woods extend.

Try if the pathless thickets screen

The robber and the captive queen.

Search where the torrent floods that rend

The mountain to the plains descend:

Search dark abysses where they rave,

Search mountain slope and wood and cave

Then on with rapid feet and gain

The inlands of the fearful main

Where, tortured by the tempest’s lash,

Against rude rocks the billows dash:

An ocean like a sable cloud,

Whose margent monstrous serpents crowd:

An ocean rising with a roar

To beat upon an iron shore.

On, onward still! your feet shall tread

Shores of the sea whose waves are red,

Where spreading wide your eyes shall see

The guilt-tormenting cotton tree(674)

And the wild spot where Garuḍ(675) dwells

Which gems adorn and ocean shells,

High as Kailása, nobly decked,

Wrought by the heavenly architect.(676)

Huge giants named Mandehas(677) there

In each foul shape they love to wear,

Numbing the soul with terror’s chill,

Hang from the summit of the hill.

When darts the sun his earliest beam

They plunge them in the ocean stream,

New vigour from his rays obtain,

And hang upon the rocks again.

Speed onward still: your steps shall be

At length beside the Milky Sea

Whose every ripple as it curls

Gleams glorious with its wealth of pearls.

Amid that sea like pale clouds spread

The white Mount Rishabh(678) rears his head.

About the mountain’s glorious waist

Woods redolent of bloom are braced.

A lake where lotuses unfold

Their silver buds with threads of gold,

Sudarśan ever bright and fair

Where white swans sport, lies gleaming there,

The wandering Kinnar’s(679) dear resort,

Where heavenly nymphs and Yakshas(680) sport.

On! leave the Milky Sea behind:

Another flood your search shall find,

A waste of waters, wild and drear,

That chills each living heart with fear.

There see the horse’s awful head,

Wrath-born, that flames in Ocean’s bed.(681)

There rises up a fearful cry

From the sea things that move thereby,

When, helpless, powerless for flight,

They gaze upon the horrid sight.

Past to the northern shore, and then

Beyond the flood three leagues and ten

Your wondering glances will behold

Mount Játarúpa(682) bright with gold.

There like the young moon pale of hue

The monstrous serpent(683) will ye view,

The earth’s supporter, whose bright eyes

Resemble lotus leaves in size.

He rests upon the mountain’s brow,

And all the Gods before him bow.

Ananta with a thousand heads

His length in robes of azure spreads.

A triple-headed palm of gold—

Meet standard for the lofty-souled—

Springs towering from the mountain’s crest

Beneath whose shade he loves to rest,

So that in eastern realms each God

May use it as a measuring-rod.

Beyond, with burning gold aglow,

The eastern steep his peaks will show,

Which in unrivalled glory rise

A hundred leagues to pierce the skies,

And all the neighbouring air is bright

With golden trees that clothe the height.

A lofty peak uprises there

Ten leagues in height and one league square

Saumanas, wrought of glistering gold,

Ne’er to be loosened from its hold.

There his first step Lord Vishṇu placed

When through the universe he paced,

And with his second lightly pressed

The loftiest peak of Meru’s crest.

When north of Jambudwíp(684) the sun

A portion of his course has run,

And hangs above this mountain height,

Then creatures see the genial light.

Vaikhánases,(685) saints far renowned,

And Bálakhilyas(686) love the ground

Where in their glory half divine,

Touched by the morning glow, they shine

The light that flashes from that steep

Illumines all Sudarśandwíp,(687)

And on each creature, as it glows,

The sight and strength of life bestows.

Search well that mountain’s woody side

If Rávaṇ there his captive hide.

The rising sun, the golden hill

The air with growing splendours fill,

Till flashes from the east the red

Of morning with the light they shed.

This, where the sun begins his state,

Is earth and heaven’s most eastern gate.

Through all the mountain forest seek

By waterfall and cave and peak.

Search every nook and bosky dell,

If Rávaṇ there with Sítá dwell.

There, Vánars, there your steps must stay:

No farther eastward can ye stray.

Beyond no sun, no moon gives light,

But all is sunk in endless night.

Thus far, O Vánar lords, may you

O’er sea and land your search pursue.

But wild and dark and known to none

Is the drear space beyond the sun.

That mountain whence the sun ascends

Your long and weary journey ends.(688)

Now go, and in a month return,

And let success my praises earn.

He who beyond tho month shall stay

Will with his life the forfeit pay.”

Canto XLI. The Army Of The South.

He gathered next a chosen band

For service in the southern land.

He summoned Níla son of Fire,

And, offspring of the eternal Sire,

Jámbaván bold and strong and tall,

And Hanumán, the best of all,

And many a valiant lord beside,(689)

With Angad for their chief and guide.

“Go forth,” he cried, “with all this host

Exploring to the southern coast:

The thousand peaks that Vindhya shows

Where every tree and creeper grows:

Where Narmadá’s(690) sweet waters run,

And serpents bask them in the sun:

Where Krishṇaveṇí’s(691) currents flee,

And sparkles fair Godávarí.(692)

Through Mekhal(693) pass and Utkal’s(694) land:

Go where Daśárṇa’s(695) cities stand.

Avantí(696) seek, of high renown,

And Abravanti’s(697) glorious town.

Search every hill and brook and cave

Where Daṇḍak’s woods their branches wave

Ayomukh’s(698) woody hill explore

Whose sides are bright with richest ore,

Lifting his glorious head on high

From bloomy groves that round him lie.

Search well his forests where the breeze

Blows fragrant from the sandal trees.

Then will you see Káverí’s(699) stream

Whose pleasant waters glance and gleam,

And to the lovely banks entice

The sportive maids of Paradise.

High on the top of Malaya’s(700) hill,

In holy musing, calm and still,

Sits, radiant as the Lord of Light,

Agastya,(701) noblest anchorite.

Soon as that lofty-thoughted lord

His high permission shall accord,

Pass Támraparṇí’s(702) flood whose isles

Are loved by basking crocodiles.

The sandal woods that fringe her side

Those islets and her waters hide;

While, like an amorous matron, she

Speeds to her own dear lord the sea.

Thence hasting on your way behold

The Páṇḍyas’(703) gates of pearl and gold.

Then, with your task maturely planned,

On ocean’s shore your feet will stand.

Where, by Agastya’s high decree,

Mahendra,(704) planted in the sea,

With tinted peaks against the tide

Rises in solitary pride,

And glorious in his golden glow

Spurns back the waves that beat below.

Fair mountain, bright with creepers’ bloom

And every tint that trees assume,

Where Yaksha, God, and heavenly maid

Meet wandering in the lovely shade,

At changing moon and solemn tide

By Indra’s presence glorified.

One hundred leagues in fair extent

An island(705) fronts the continent:

No man may tread its glittering shore,

With utmost heed that isle explore,

For the fair country owns the sway

Of Rávaṇ whom we burn to slay.

A mighty monster stands to keep

The passage of the southern deep.

Lifting her awful arms on high

She grasps e’en shadows as they fly.

Speed through that isle, and onward still

Where in mid sea the Flowery Hill(706)

Raises on high his bloomy head

By saints and angels visited.

There, with a hundred gleaming peaks

Bright as the sun, the sky he seeks,

One glorious peak the Lord of Day

Gilds ever with his loving ray;

Thereon ne’er yet the glances fell

Of thankless wretch or infidel.

Bow to that hill in reverence due,

And then once more your search pursue.

Beyond that glorious mountain hie,

And Súryaván,(707) proud hill is nigh.

Your rapid course yet farther bend

Where Vaidyut’s(708) airy peaks ascend.

There trees of noblest sort, profuse

Of wealth, their kindly gifts produce.

Their precious fruits, O Vánars, taste,

The honey sip, and onward haste.

Next will ye see Mount Kunjar rise,

Who cheers with beauty hearts and eyes.

There is Agastya’s(709) mansion, decked

By heaven’s all moulding architect.

Near Bhogavatí(710) stands, the place

Where dwell the hosts of serpent race:

A broad-wayed city, walled and barred,

Which watchful legions keep and guard,

The fiercest of the serpent youth,

Each awful for his venomed tooth:

And throned in his imperial hall

Is Vásuki(711) who rules them all.

Explore the serpent city well,

Search town and tower and citadel,

And scan each field and wood that lies

Around it, with your watchful eyes.

Beyond that spot your way pursue:

A noble mountain shall ye view,

Named Rishabh, like a mighty bull,

With gems made bright and beautiful.

All trees of sandal flourish there

Of heavenly fragrance, rich and rare.

But, though they tempt your longing eyes,

Avoid to touch them, and be wise.

For Rohitas, a guardian band

Of fierce Gandharvas, round them stand,

Who five bright sovereign lords(712) obey,

In glory like the God of Day.

Here by good deeds a home is won

With shapes like fire, the moon, the sun.

Here they who merit heaven by worth

Dwell on the confines of the earth.

There stay: beyond it, dark and drear,

Lies the departed spirits’ sphere,

And, girt with darkness, far from bliss,

Is Yáma’s sad metropolis.(713)

So far, my lords, o’er land and sea

Your destined course is plain and free.

Beyond your steps you may not set,

Where living thing ne’er journeyed yet.

With utmost care these realms survey,

And all you meet upon the way.

And, when the lady’s course is traced,

Back to your king, O Vánars, haste.

And he who tells me he has seen.

After long search, the Maithil queen,

Shall gain a noble guerdon: he

In power and bliss shall equal me.

Dear as my very life, above

His fellows in his master’s love;

I call him, yea though stained with crime.

My kinsman from that happy time.”

Canto XLII. The Army Of The West.